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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304909">The Thing Beneath</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux'>HastaLux</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Eldritch Entity Moriarty, Horror, Inspired by Stephen King's IT, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:33:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,391</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HastaLux/pseuds/HastaLux</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1987, something awoke beneath the quiet village of Alderry. In 1988, a group of children defeated it.</p><p>In 2011, it has awoken again, and it remembers them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>June, 1987</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Alderry, England</b>
</p><p>It starts with the rain.</p><p>A number of students watch it begin to trickle from inside the safe and warm confines of their Year 5 classroom. In the back, Harriet Watson crafts small paper airplanes to direct at the back of her brother’s head, several seats ahead of her. Notes are passed regarding plans to see <em> Spaceballs </em> in the movie theater several towns over. Victor Trevor, sitting between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, assures them his mum will drive. Behind Sherlock, Molly Hooper fidgets, pretending she isn’t reading over his shoulder and perhaps hoping that they might invite her along, this time. There’s only twenty of them in the class, after all. Surely they must realize she’s there.</p><p>Farther down the road at the Secondary school Mike Stamford runs chemical equations in his Year 8 science course, heedless of the incoming downpour. In the Year 10 course next door, Greg Lestrade idly sketches a motorbike along the side of his notes on Parliamentary procedure. Mycroft Holmes, sat a few seats over, takes no notes at all, but instead carefully masters the art of listening and daydreaming at the same time as he carefully shifts out of the way of Sebastian Moran’s efforts at hurling spitballs in his general direction.</p><p>The heavy early summer downpour covers Alderry in mud, the dark earth sliding into its creeks and sewers. It trickles down and down, into dark caverns that burrow far deeper than anyone above suspects. The water fills the deepest chamber slowly, lifting ancient traces of long-dried blood from the stone and casting the liquid in deep red.</p><p>In the center of it, a sleeper unfurls. Its tendrils extend, sampling the water, drinking the remains of its conquests as it rises from its long hibernation. With it, bones lift. A skull drifts to the surface, tangled in the web of its keeper, and vanishes again, teeth clattering as if it could still scream, now, centuries after the death of its owner. A groan echoes through the cavern, like thousands of voices sighing as one.</p><p>And there in the dark, a set of glowing eyes open.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>June, 1987- Sherlock</b>
</p><p>He eyes the little paper boats that they’ve spent ages carefully coating with supplies from Mummy’s workshop to make sure they’re mostly waterproof. Eurus bounces next to him, splattering both of them with a puddle. He doesn’t need to look behind them to know Mycroft is absolutely dying about how messy they’re getting, and the thought makes him grin as he stomps down hard and sends ripples into the temporary stream. “The physics say they should come out on Winpole Street.”</p><p>Her little boots rock back and forth, and then kick a small wave at him. “You aren’t accounting for the change in current due to the ditch at Mayberry, Sherlock.”</p><p>“Will you two come inside, <em> please. </em>It’s pouring. Mummy will be wroth if you go out in this.”</p><p>Sherlock whirls and glares at his elder brother. “Shut it, Fatcroft. Eurus and I are racing.” </p><p>“That’s rude, Sherlock,” Eurus says politely. “Even if it’s true.”</p><p>Mycroft’s face shifts, the pudge of his cheeks tinting scarlet. “Sod the both of you. Get inside now or I shan’t be responsible for your silly games any longer and you’ll be lucky to be let outside ever again.”</p><p>“We never needed you, <em> Mycroft. </em> Eurus- on three, and we’ll see which of us is right. Three- two- one- launch!” Two matched boats drop into the current running along the sidewalk, and both children take off at a sprint, racing to the end of the road where they split, shouting back and forth about which will be proven right about where the finish line is. </p><p>Sherlock’s boots slam into the water, the splashes echoing as he runs. He has to consider that Eurus may be correct. Though she is three years his junior she has a good mind for physics. Even Mycroft has lifted one of his rarely surprised brows at how quick she is with maths, and none of them have any doubt that she’ll skip up at least one year as both Sherlock and Mycroft have. Physics being their mother’s specialty, Eurus has had no shortage of advanced reading on the subject. Mummy has made something of an effort to buoy Sherlock’s interests in all things chemical as well. He understands that it’s the best way she has of relating to children she would not otherwise understand. God forbid they had been in any way <em> normal. </em> Then she’d really be lost.</p><p>Mycroft, perhaps, did not benefit as much, but Sherlock thought that served him right for being old and boring by the time Sherlock was interested in playing pirates and running through the fields. </p><p>He can still see Eurus’s coat every now and then, yellow and bright through the gap in other people’s fences. He follows his boat along the streets. It’s a bit slower than he expected, but it is going. </p><p>And it does hook and turn when it hits the ditch at Mayberry.</p><p>“Bollocks!”</p><p>Eurus will no doubt be ahead of him now, so Sherlock feels less bad about plucking his own boat from the water and running ahead with it. The path is obvious. The lowest elevation on all the streets is just in front of Stamford Pharmacy, and the boats should stop at the little cement curbs they have out to mark their two parking spaces while the rest of the water continues to the storm drains beyond. </p><p>There’s a bit of yellow sitting on one of them. “Eurus! You <em> were </em> right, but I contest our arrangement regarding the allocation of chores to the loser….”</p><p>She isn’t there. It’s just her hat, speckled with a dark red Sherlock recognizes from his experiments.</p><p>“Eurus?”</p><p>Mrs. Stamford brings him home an hour later, still clutching the hat, her son Mike doing his best to comfort him in the back seat of her car. She tells them he was screaming in the street for an age and only stopped when they came out. </p><p>He doesn’t speak again for six months.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>August, 1987- Victor</b>
</p><p>Victor sees her in his backyard, a little raincoat-clad girl on the other side of the washing. It’s not raining, that’s why it’s odd. “Ma,” he yells up the stairs, but she’s busy with the little ones- she’s always busy with them, because they’re babies, she says, and they need her more than Victor does. She doesn’t answer, anyway. </p><p>He steps out the back door. Victor’s seen the papers, and he knows Sherlock from school. Of course he knows that his classmate’s sister is missing, maybe dead, though the adults don’t like saying that as much. “Eurus? That you?”</p><p>Maybe he should’ve put on his own rainboots- it isn’t throwing down now, but the ground’s still wet and muddy and his ma’ll yell if he tracks it back in. “You know your brothers’ve been worried about you, Eurus. You want to come in? We can call over, your parents can come get you.”</p><p>She half-turns, not fully visible behind a fluttering sheet hung out to dry. “I’m just playing, Victor. Do you want to play?”</p><p>There’s something odd about her voice, but so few people want to play with Victor these days. He’s supposed to be too old for it now. Sherlock used to play with him more, when they were really little- maybe if Victor brings his sister home, he’ll want to again. “What’re you playing?”</p><p>“Hide and seek, silly!” She bolts behind the cloth, evading him as he rounds behind it. </p><p>“Alright- alright, I’ll play, but when I find you, we’ll call your parents, yeah?”</p><p>“You have to close your eyes, Victor! Otherwise it’s cheating.”</p><p>“Okay, okay. One…  two… three…..”</p><p>When his eyes flutter open on ten, he thinks he sees a hint of yellow darting around the fence line, and he can’t help but smile. “Alright, Eurus, I’m coming to get you!”</p><p>Victor runs forward, pushing open the back gate. </p><p>The alley’s empty. But there’s a sewer cap open, set aside on the rough pavement. He walks over to it, a cold feeling drifting up through his chest. “Eurus? You shouldn’t go down there, it’s not safe.”</p><p>He peers over the side, down the rusted ladder that leads below.</p><p>Dark eyes look back. </p><p>“Don’t you want to play forever, Victor?” Eurus’s voice asks, sliding into a cadence that is far deeper than a child could make. “Forever and ever and ever-”</p><p>A shape scurries up the ladder faster than Victor can react.</p><p>No one hears him scream.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October, 1987- John</b>
</p><p>They hide in the back, darting through the high weeds until they get to the gap in the fence. They’re still small enough to get through, but John knows that won’t last forever. Their dad is shouting, slurring, and there’s a crash of glass against wood that says he’s thrown his empty bottle at one of the porch posts again. “Fuck,” Harry curses as the fence catches her shoulder and carves a thin line in red into freckled skin.</p><p>“Alright?” John pulls her closer once they’re safe in the tree line, looking over the damage. Bruises and blood stopped bothering him years ago. Part of him knows that isn’t quite normal, but he tries to use it to his advantage. “Think I’ve got a plaster in my pocket-“</p><p>“It’s fine. Save it.” He knows Harry resents ever looking weak.</p><p>That probably isn’t normal either. </p><p>They take off again. Their father isn’t sober enough to chase them, but sometimes he tries anyway. It’s better to keep going.</p><p>Running down to the creek is a swift process, jumping over rocks and fallen branches to the wider band of water where the town’s drainage runs off in a massive metal pipe. It’s a quiet spot, usually, far enough away from the town that no one bothers them. John’s been storing things down there for years, little tins of plasters and rags, and things of their mother’s that he decided to hide in the trees so their dad wouldn’t sell them.</p><p>He finds one of the less hidden ones that has a bag of nuts and apples that he’s stolen out from the orchard on the edge of town for the times they have to run instead of eat. They sit on the big rock and snack in silence, watching the water.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Harry’s pointing to something in the water, something trapped on a branch and gently floating in resistance to a current. She’s going for it before John can say otherwise, before he can mention that something about it creeps him the hell out. Water goes up to her calves but she’s never been bothered about wet shoes. </p><p>Her hand wraps a band of fabric and pulls. The backpack is bright colored, red and yellow pouring water back into the creek. It’s the sort they had when they were littler, when their mom was still around and packed up little sandwiches and told them to hold hands walking into town to get to school.</p><p>“Bring it here, Harry.” </p><p>The contents are a loss- soaked books and papers and a worn old bunny rabbit toy. Weeds wrap the straps, long and ropey, dangling into the water.</p><p>A name is stitched on a little scrap of fabric on the inside though, right at the top. <em> Carl Powers. </em> “Didn’t he go missing?” Harry asks, her voice strangely quiet. John remembers it. He was only six, the same age as Sherlock’s little sister. <em> And she’s gone too. </em> They’d asked all the kids at school if they’d seen him. No one had. A month later it was like no one remembered him at all.</p><p>“Yeah.” Something about it feels all sorts of wrong. Like something bad happened here. </p><p>Like they’re being watched.</p><p>“Leave it. Let’s eat somewhere else.”</p><p>“John?”</p><p>“Just leave it.” The bag shifts in his hands, and he lets go of it just in time for it to snap back hard into the water, like something’s yanked on the weeds and <em> pulled. </em></p><p>If he didn’t know better it would feel like… bait.</p><p>He packs up the tin and takes it with them. He can find a different spot to hide it and come back for the others. “I don’t want to be here right now. S’creepy.”</p><p>“Should we call the police?”</p><p>He pauses, his heart racing when his eyes pass over the almost too-dark circle within the drainage pipe. He thinks it’s called fight-or-flight. They read about it with animals in school. “No. No-leave it in the water. Someone else will find it further downstream.” Harry nods, and they follow the path of the bag for a ways until they peel off back up the hill. “We’ll say something if no one finds it in a week or so, alright? Say we saw a kid’s bag, anyway.”</p><p>“Kay,” Harry murmurs. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December, 1987- Mycroft</b>
</p><p>Mycroft’s last glimpse of his sister is from under the blurry cover of an umbrella, his feet sheltered by large rainboots, as she runs down the road. She is laughing, certain of her victory. She’s the smart one, after all.</p><p>Six months later their parents close Eurus’s room. There is no funeral. No one will say she’s dead. She’s simply… gone.</p><p>For those six months Sherlock stops speaking, his referrals to a child psychologist only resulting in increasingly disturbing crayon pictures. He won’t look at Mycroft. Neither will their parents, not really. He knows he is <em> blamed </em>, even if they don’t say it. He was meant to be watching. He was meant to be in charge. </p><p>He failed.</p><p>When Sherlock speaks again, it’s in quiet murmurs that their parents ignore save to have whatever medications the psychologist has put him on increased. “Into the drains. The drains took her under.”</p><p>Once, it’s a quiet glance up to Mycroft when they’re alone. “I saw his teeth, Mykey.”</p><p>“Whose?”</p><p>“The… thing. Creature. Whatever it is. He ate her. I think he took her below and ate her.”</p><p>One night, Sherlock appears in his room, eyes wide, and holding Eurus’s small yellow raincoat in his hand. Mycroft follows him out of the house in the dark, holding a torch in his shaking hand. Sherlock holds his hand as they approach the well, Mycroft’s heart beating nearly out of his chest. The steady thud almost drowns out the rest, a constant <em> thud-thud </em> in his ear.</p><p>He aims the light down into the stone. The water is low- they haven’t used it for drinking, not for years and years. </p><p>But it’s high now, close to the top, and she’s down there, floating and looking up at him.</p><p>“Mykey, why don’t you ever want to play with us?”</p><p>His mouth is dry. A thousand things rush through his mind, all the calculations that this is <em> wrong </em> pushed to the side by the brief pang of hope that maybe it is her, ever after all this time. “Eurus?”</p><p>“I know you think you’re too old, Mykey, but you’re not. You’re not too old. You can still play with us!” </p><p>Sherlock squeezes his hand tighter. He swallows. <em> Not real. This can’t be real. </em></p><p>“Both of you! Come play! There’s so many friends here.”</p><p>Her hands rise from the water and dig into the stones, pulling her up, and he steps back out of instinct, bile in his throat as he sees the wrongness in the way she moves, in the way it’s like she’s being… puppeted. </p><p>For a moment Mycroft is certain he can see another figure below her, something dark.</p><p>Something with quite a lot of teeth. </p><p>“Sherlock,” he breathes, his voice high, “run.”</p><p>Eurus skitters up the stone as they take off, sprinting as fast they can back to the house. Sherlock is smaller and faster, which Mycroft is counting on. He can stand between them, so long as Sherlock is safe. Adrenaline races through him, every footstep matched with a heartbeat and the dull pump of blood in his ears. “Keep running, Sherlock! Keep running!”</p><p>Mycroft doesn’t glance behind them until he’s through the door, slamming it closed and locking it. Eurus’s hands hit the glass, smearing it in water and grime. She smiles at them as Mycroft falls back against the kitchen table. Sherlock is under it, clutching his leg.</p><p>Then she’s gone, like someone’s snapped back a rubber band, leaving only wet, dirty handprints on the glass. The coat is the last thing they see, dropped by Sherlock outside and slowly pulled away by something that looks like vines, vanishing into the dark and the well.</p><p>They breathe in silence, waiting for it to come again, but nothing does. </p><p>“I believe you,” he manages after a long while, reaching down to gently comfort Sherlock, petting the rain-dampened curls and smoothing them out. “I believe you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>July, 2011</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again, spring gives way to summer, and the rain comes down. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cavern fills anew. There’s less blood this time, less sustenance to bring it up to full wakefulness, and when the creature within does begin to wake, it is with a howl of pain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They hurt it, the children. They hurt it, and it wants them to </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffer.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Slowly, slowly, it begins to stitch closed the last of its unhealed wounds, and with a shuddering exhale, it expels the detritus from its cave. The tendrils that protect it unwind and creep out, sliding into the veins of the town, searching. It can feel them, out there. Some have wandered far, but they will return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there are others it can turn to its purpose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hours later, in the river outside of town, a yellow raincoat drifts to the surface.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Molly</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Upper Alderry Valley Mortuary is typically a slow business. Molly likes it though. She’s never minded the dead, and working there gives her plenty of time to spend with her cats and perfecting her baking. They usually have the same sort of clients, too: the elderly, and those of middle age who didn’t take such good care of themselves. Outliers are unusual- car accidents, or farming mishaps, but they don’t see many of those.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the first child on her table in years feels different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sets the picture the parents want to emulate on the wall, so she can check it as she works to restore rosy cheeks and curly hair. Her makeup kit goes on a little table next to her chair, ready for use after she gives the boy the more chemical side of the treatments he’ll need to keep well through the viewing and the service, the things that will try to make his family feel a little better while they say goodbye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The line balks when she turns the valve, sputtering a sad little acrid puff. “Oh, now what.” It better not be rats again, they’ve already gone through enough with that, and no one trusts a funeral home where a rat’s been nibbling a body’s toes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her fingers trace the line back toward the tanks, pausing where they loop under the refrigerated wall of cases where bodies rest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The panel’s a little ajar. She pulls. Nothing gives.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pulls again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand slides out from the panel, bloodless and firmly grasping the hose.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly’s eyes flick up. There’s no body assigned to that unit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She chews her bottom lip and slowly opens the small metal door. There’s a body on the table. A little boy with curly hair, like her current work, but she knows this one.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Victor?” she whispers, reaching out.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A cold, pale hand closes around her wrists, as pupiless eyes snap open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly falls shouting, equipment clattering around her, head smacking the metal leg of her work table enough to ring her ears, but when she blinks back, there’s nothing there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just her and the child’s body. The right one, not- not Victor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her phone buzzes quietly in her pocket, and somehow she already senses it. She has to answer, she has to because it’s time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Molly? This is Mike Stamford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She swallows. “Hello Mike.” One inhale steadies her. She looks to the child on the table and </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “It’s time, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um- yes, Molly, I’m afraid it is.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Greg</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg has no idea when he started tuning out the screaming. It was last year, possibly. Or the year before. Maybe five at the most. It’s not good when that sort of shit becomes white noise, is it? But that’s what he’s got work for. To get away from it. Bless the Greater Manchester Police Force, even getting called up for a nice murder is better than dealing with the woman he really shouldn’t have wed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Dumb as a brick, wasn’t I?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Too late now, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you even fucking listening to me, Greg?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not really.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Were you saying something new, Janey? Cause it didn’t sound like it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is exactly what I fucking mean! You’re gone all day and when you get home you never even fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen-</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tunes her back out. Somehow any time he’s caught her fucking around has resulted in </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>shouting at </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which feels a bit backwards from how things are supposed to go. He just doesn’t really have the energy to be mad about it. Her strops manage to suck all the anger up for both of them, and then he just… doesn’t care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you going to fucking get that Greg? Jesus Christ, I can’t even hear myself think.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sighs, reaching for his phone, which he can’t really believe she heard over her own shrieking about his grave betrayal in… being aware of her affairs, he supposes, he’s not actually sure. “Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg Lestrade?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So’m told, mate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is Mike Stamford. I don’t know if you remember me, from Alderry….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>God.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Alderry had been ages ago. He was happy to be shot of the place as soon as he graduated. “Sure, you were, uh….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s no harm if you don’t, Greg. I don’t think we were meant- well, it’s no harm. I’m calling to ask if you might- come back, Greg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“To Alderry?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why the fuck would I do that?</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I mean I’m on the force in Manchester now, mate, and the hours are-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Utter shit!” Janey shouts in from behind him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg rolls his eyes and walks to the kitchen to find another beer. “Why, s’there a reunion or somethin’? What is it, twentieth or so? Don’t think I’m much for that, to be honest-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m asking because you promised, Greg. We all did. If- if that thing came back.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He inhales as his fingers curl around the glass too hard. “What thing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what thing, Greg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg swallows and sets the beer down hard on the counter, splashing over the side and foaming on his hand. It feels like twenty years are being ripped from him by force, and then he’s a lanky teen again and staring into darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Mike. I remember.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Harry</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already told you, Harry, I’m not doing this again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re not doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Clara? Hm? What?” She can hear the shuffle of clothing being shoved into a bag, documents and files and all of Clara’s work things being put into her sleek little messenger. “I can handle myself-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, you fucking can’t. You want to talk to me again, Harry, you better be fucking sober.” Clara’s heels stomp past Harry, and she reaches, but she can’t quite grab them. They’re too blurry, which is- well it’s not fucking Harry’s fault if Clara’s shoes are all blurry. Or that her cheek’s pressed against the rug. How’d she get on the floor, anyway? A cup of water sloshes down next to her face. “Drink that. Try not to die. If you want to keep drinking anything else, you can lose my goddamn number.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clara- come on, m’fine-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get </span>
  <em>
    <span>sober,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harry.” The heels march off, the heavy slam of a door following. Well, that’s fine. Everyone leaves Harry, anyway, she doesn’t know why she bothers expecting any different. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Water isn’t going to help her with this, but her beer is- well it’s all the way over </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and walking is difficult at the moment. She just needs to rest her eyes, anyway. The floor is fine for that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere under her a phone buzzes, and she wriggles her hand underneath to get it, sloshing the cup even more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harriet? Harriet Watson?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking,” she slurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is Mike Stamford. From Alderry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her head aches. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that third- fourth? Mmm, or was it more than that. Doesn't matter, anyway. “Listen, mate, I can’t-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You made a promise, Harry. We all made a promise.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I-” She blinks, vision swimming, and she would swear she could hear laughter, and John. Stupid, brave John, before he went off to the war, already trying to play doctor with colorful plasters and an improvised tourniquet. “No- no-” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She cuts the call and tosses the phone aside, but it’s too late. There’s water sinking into the carpet, and it stinks of sewer and mold and death.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry throws up.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- John</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“John? Is this John Watson?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Speaking.” He doesn’t feel much like John Watson, laying there and staring at the ceiling. His shoulder aches, and his gun’s been on the nightstand every day, just sitting there taunting him while he wastes time… existing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if you’ll remember me…. This is Mike. Mike Stamford. From Alderry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a twinge in John’s brain, a twitch of nerves that signals an oncoming headache. “Alderry, yeah.” It’s where he grew up, but he’s been gone years. The place is too small. He felt suffocated there as a kid, he can’t imagine it’s gotten any better.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you remember me? My parents owned the pharmacy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John has a vague recollection of the place, but as soon as he pictures the outside he starts to feel uneasy. Strangely, it’s the same feeling he got when he was deployed whenever someone was about to start shooting at him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was the woman at the counter, usually, who’d give them free sweets when no one was looking, and a heavyset boy with glasses who’d read comics in the corner….</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mike. You were… a couple years ahead of us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Listen, John- I’ve got to tell you something, and I’m going to apologize in advance because- well. You’ll remember. And I am sorry for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s brow furrows. God, but his head aches. “Listen, mate, you aren’t making much sense-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s back, John. That thing we- the thing in the sewers. It’s… it’s back, Johnny. And you promised.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pain shoots, lightning like, all the way to his temple. He can </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> it - teeth and blood and laughter further off in the dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone falls to the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John is shaking when he finally manages to get his thoughts in order, pacing in his tiny flat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His gun is on the table and freshly cleaned, though he doesn’t really remember that bit. He’d just started cleaning it over and over again until the ache of the memories finally fucking left him alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How could he have forgotten? He went to war. To </span>
  <em>
    <span>war.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And getting shot was better than anything he’d faced then.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Faces flicker in his mind, young and briefly innocent before they weren’t anymore. None of them were. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike had told him he was working on getting hold of the others, slowly. Molly’s already there. Greg’s on his way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry hung up on him. John’s not surprised, she rarely takes his calls either. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock wasn’t picking up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft seemed to have no trace on the internet at all, and no public records to speak of after university.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Sherlock’s got a blog, Mike mentioned, and- perhaps he’s flattering himself, but John thinks he’s more likely to get an answer there than Mike is. His hand taps carefully into the keys of his laptop, each one sounding too loud, like the ominous rhythm of a grandfather clock that’s fallen out of time. “We’ll need you both,” he mutters into the stale air. “C’mon, Sherlock. Can’t do this without our geniuses.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hitting enter feels like both a prayer and a curse.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Sherlock</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He runs through the alley, already mapping out the best route to keep out of the grasp of his pursuers. He’ll need a new supplier. It was a poor enough cut that his dealer must have wanted someone to notice. True, he probably shouldn’t have mentioned that the idiot was sampling his own product in front of his higher level connection, but Sherlock was hoping one of them might have sense. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sense and access to better drugs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why is everyone around him so bloody stupid?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He cuts around a narrow corner and heads up, navigating a fire escape and ducking onto a roof. No one ever thinks to run up. They always run down. He should be safe here until they move on, then he’ll slip back to his flat and do something calming. Like aromatic tests on orchids he definitely did not steal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From his pocket, his phone quietly pings. It can’t be Alderry, it can’t, he’s got the whole bloody town blocked-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a new message from his blog. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Hi Sherlock, this is John Watson. Don’t know if you remember me….</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He slides to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands go to his pockets. There must be something on him, anything that will make him forget-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s happening again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sob chokes its way out of him. He feels so, so small as his hand starts dialing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft- I know you’re keeping tabs- did you see? Did you hear?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A long, sad sigh comes through the line. “Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll send a car.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Sebastian</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls over on his small cot, the thin mattress creaking under him. St. Margaret’s Hospital for the criminally insane has never been comfortable, but most of the residents have far more to worry about than the comfort of their beds. Sebastian can relate, after all. The men and women who tell him, or scream aloud, that they’ve heard the voice of the devil, that demons made them do it-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah, he understands that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t know whether their voices are real, but his is. Sebastian has never lost faith, even after all these years. He did what was asked of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d do it again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes he whispers into dark corners, hoping to hear that voice again. When they catch him they alter his meds, but that’s never stopped him, not in the long run. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So when he wakes up one morning and goes on his supervised visit to the showers, he’s thrilled to see that face lurking in the corner of the mirror, the eyes glinting at him out of a dark corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re here,” he breathes, savoring the rush of power that brings him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I knew it. I knew you’d come back for me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you miss me, Sebastian?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The others can’t hear him, can’t hear that special voice that’s just for Sebastian. He smiles, fractured in the reflection of the cracked glass. “Of course I did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry you had to wait, my Sebastian. But it’s time to come home now. Time to come back to me.”  Sebastian looks down in the reflection. There’s a knife behind him, sliding out on the dirty water overflowing from the drain and drifting toward his feet. “You know what to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do. I will, boss.” Sebastian turns. His boss is gone, but the knife is there, real as anything. He picks it up, and it feels so natural in his hand, like a missing piece of his soul handed back to him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guards hardly get the chance to scream.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2011- Mycroft</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Every kilometer they draw closer to Alderry feels like slowly falling into a frozen pond. At some point, the ice will close over and he’ll drown there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft wouldn’t consider himself an agoraphobic, not fully. It’s just that he really only goes to his home or his club, unless work has a specific need for him elsewhere. Leaving is… dangerous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaving to go back to Alderry is </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d had some awareness of the wrongness of it, ever since Sherlock came tumbling out of his first foray into drugs at university. He stumbled into Mycroft’s flat shaking and whispering and suddenly Mycroft </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> they’d seen something, and they </span>
  <em>
    <span>lost</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, and Sherlock’s efforts to quiet the panging of that feeling in his own mind had just unlocked it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft still doesn’t recall all of it, just bits and pieces. It’s been getting worse recently, has been since Mike Stamford started calling Sherlock. He gave Sherlock a new phone, a new number, but that didn’t sort it. John Watson still found his blog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they were right, in the end. They had promised. Mycroft Holmes does not break his word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifts his eyes and meets his brother’s in the mirror. Sherlock is laying across the backseat, sweating out the rest of the toxins in his system over the four hour drive it takes to reach Alderry from London. Mycroft is certain that isn’t the last of it- Sherlock </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> seems to have something on him, but Mycroft does appreciate that he seems to be making an attempt at sobriety.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think they’ll all be there?” Sherlock asks, his voice a bit worn as Mycroft returns his gaze to the road..</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I expect they will. Drink some water, please. There’s a bottle in the carryall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He listens for the sound of the cap unscrewing and Sherlock pulling himself up to drink. “Four of us, at least. Would four be enough?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will make do with whomever can join us. The girls will try, I’m sure.” He doesn’t remember them well, but he can picture them a bit when he tries. They’d both been closer to the younger set, just a touch older than Sherlock, who’d been the youngest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock glances forward again, noting the omission. “And Lestrade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mycroft’s eyes meet his again. He refuses to allow his face to move, refuses to let the pull that name causes in his chest to be visible. “Yes. And Lestrade.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2011- Greg</b>
</p><p>
  <span>The town looks almost just as he remembers it, and Greg can’t tell if that’s a comfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Never fucking changes, does it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a bit more worn, sure. Coats of paint on fences chipped away by wind and rain. Suspicious faces peer through windows as his car rumbles past. He doesn’t blame them- the noise it makes is horrid. He could fix it, easy, he just needs to buy the parts. Something else he’s been putting off, right alongside the thought that he could just get divorce proceedings started. Bit of paperwork, a little money, tiny bit of effort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just... hasn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car whines to a halt outside the pharmacy. The Stamford name is still outside, one of the only things that looks like it’s got a fresh coat of paint in the last ten years. He climbs out, feeling an odd sense of deja vu as he looks down the street. </span>
  <em>
    <span>S’all grey. Just like me now, I guess.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Greg?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike Stamford looks nearly the same, just older. He smiles widely as Greg comes up and hugs him. “Hiya Mike. How are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well.” Mike’s smile turns wry. “Suppose I’ve been better, all things considered.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>That.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Greg swallows. “Your parents still here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, they toddled off to Spain as soon as I took over about, mm, eight years back. Probably for the best, really.” He holds open the door, the bell above it jangling out of tune. “Come in, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pharmacy seems about as modern as Alderry’s likely to get. Mike’s put in cameras, there’s locked glass cases for the drugs now. “Local delinquents getting worse?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, well. Lots of things, really. Did have a little break-in. Painkillers, mostly. There’s always something, even out here.” Mike locks the door behind them, flipping the sign to a cheerful </span>
  <em>
    <span>Back in a half hour!</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>With it, Greg feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’d been avoiding thinking about it on the way, but there’s no ignoring it now. He’s here. He promised to be here. “So….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So.” Mike tries for a smile, but it only makes him look sad. “Well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened? Kids missing, again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods. “Yes, but they try not to talk about it. Or they can’t. You remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me too. It’s interesting, actually, the way we all- forgot. Just forgot and went on. I mean, I left, I went off to school. We all left, eventually. Even coming back, I’d… it was like it was just gone. A blur.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still is, in a lot of ways.” Greg can remember pieces, but it all seems a bit surreal. Hazy faces. Children screaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Darkness and blood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind tries to protect you, doesn’t it? Prolly something like that.” He nods and follows Mike back into the passage up to the flat over the pharmacy. “You remembered though, didn’t you? That’s how you knew to call us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, I didn’t, actually. Didn’t remember a thing until- well. I saw the first case in the paper..” He sighs. “Anyway, you aren’t the first arrival. Lucky you, she bakes much better than I do anyway, so there are fresh biscuits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg ascends the steps with a touch of trepidation, his mind feeling like it’s struggling to get its gears together. It’d been him, Mike, the twins… others too, though his mind doesn’t seem to be able to pull up their faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes refocus at the landing. She’s sitting curled into herself, an enormous sweater hiding her tiny form and a steaming cup of tea in her hand. There are dark circles under her eyes, and even though he can’t see it he knows there’s a band of five scars above her wrist in the shape of dragging claws.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Screaming while it tried to drag her, her and Johnny, Harry hanging on and shouting at them to do something-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Molly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She half-smiles looking up at him, but it’s a broken, tragic effort. “Hullo Greg.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s awkward, the three of them sitting in Mike’s little flat, eating biscuits like they aren’t there to kill a demon. A devil, an alien- that thing could be the reason for all of those myths, as far as Greg can tell. But it doesn’t matter. They swore. And now it has to die.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… is this it, then?” Greg chews the inside of his cheek. Him, Molly, Stamford. That’s not enough, but he can’t really expect any of them to come back. Not after what they’d seen the last time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, Stamford waves it away, setting out a tray of biscuits that look like they’ve seen slightly better days. “No, no. John’s en route. He was working on reaching out to Sherlock as well, but I’m not sure if he had any luck. Those Holmeses are hard to find.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not Harriet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike’s hand pauses over the sugar bowl, plucking another cube for his tea. “No. Um- she hung up on me. She didn’t sound well, truth be told. I’m not- I don’t know if she’ll come or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg’s fingers tighten around the tea cup- it feels too small and breakable in his hand. Still, he nods. “She had a rough go of it, Mike. It’s not- it’s not your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well.” Mike smiles wetly. “I still feel a bit responsible all the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly shakes her head. “You're really not. It’s that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault. Or her da. That’s who’s responsible. Not you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate the sentiment, truly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg clears his throat. “So. Have we got a plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike sighs. “Not a great one. But- we know roughly where it is, assuming it hasn’t moved- and there’s no reason to think it has. And… I’ve been researching, since I started to… recall things. Once the most recent cases appeared in the paper. Molly’s been helping, since she’s local as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll be better to go over it once everyone’s here,” Molly says softly, glancing out the window at the sound of a car. “I don’t think it will be long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2011- John</b>
</p><p>
  <span>John would be lying if he said he didn’t spend the entire train ride north thinking of backup plans. Cabs are hard to come by out there, but he could probably get one if he calls for it. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> know how to drive, it’s just that his leg doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to, and that’s not really something he wants to test in the middle of an intersection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure what he expects when he limps off the train. His leg hurts, his shoulder aches, and Christ he’s not looking forward to leaning against a wall for an hour waiting for a cab-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there’s Harry, sitting on the hood of her rusting car, lifting a beer in his general direction. “Johnny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry.” He hobbles down the steps toward her. They don’t hug, they haven’t done that in years. Watsons aren’t really the emotionally demonstrative type. “Wasn’t sure you’d be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well.” She takes a swig. “Fuck else do I have to do, yeah?”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He huffs. “I know the feeling.” She hops down and opens the passenger door for him, handing off the beer. A Liverpool FC decal sits in the rear window- Clara’s team, John remembers that, though when he’d asked about her when he called Harry she’d pretty clearly waved him off the subject. “You sure you’re good to drive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, takes more than that to fuck me up. You can have the rest, anyway. Prol’ly need it more than me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John eyes her skeptically, but only half the bottle is gone and she doesn’t seem like she’s had much more. “Alright.” He takes a sip and almost spits it back out. “Harry, this is- is this cream soda?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She doesn’t look a bit sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god, how can you drink this?” He wants to be proud of her that it isn’t actually a beer, but- gah, that shite is disgusting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dunno, it’s not that bad. Besides, I said I’d pick you up, you arsehole, I’m not gonna drive you into a tree right after.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s- yeah, Harry, I shouldn’t have assumed. Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S’alright.” She turns onto a country road, pressing the pedal down as they accelerate on into the wood-covered path that leads back to Alderry. “Most of the time you wouldn’t be wrong, anyway. Not like I can blame you for it.” She swipes the bottle back out of his hand without looking, drinking and setting it in the cup holder. “How’s your phone holding up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, good. Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You use it to get in touch with-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re about to ask me about therapy, I should tell you in advance I can and will counter with the same question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... fair point.” And not one either of them are going to broach, apparently. “Leg doing alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Bout as well as I think it’s going to.” He stretches it out, easing the ache a little. “Gonna have to stock up on paracetamol if we’re going to go- down there. Again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s knuckles whiten around the wheel. “Do you think we will?” she asks softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John grits his teeth. “Probably can’t avoid it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” she sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That, at least, makes the knot in John’s chest relax. Harry’s the same, deep down. Part of him wondered if she would be. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Fuck is right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2011- Sherlock</b>
</p><p>
  <span>They meander toward a pub, all seven of them, and despite himself Sherlock very seriously considers running. Would they miss him, really? Mycroft can handle any need for intelligent thought, there’s no need for both of them to be here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as the others start to wander into the pub, he glances across the street. It’s raining, just a drizzle really, but she’s there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little girl in a yellow raincoat, smiling too wide and waving from across the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stomps inside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not real. She’s not real. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>God, but he could use some better drugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock chews the inside of his lip, focusing instead on his brother, who is trying not to let himself get caught looking at Greg. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Interpersonal relations are so... fraught. There’s a reason he hasn’t bothered. Still, his eyes skim down and note the band of pale, indented skin on Lestrade’s finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Divorced, Lestrade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Greg blinks at him. “Er- no, but, uh....” Sherlock all but rolls his eyes as he senses Mycroft tensing up. “Left the ring. We’re barely, uh. Well. Haven’t had the time to do paperwork or anything, and she’ll just shout anyway, so….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should put it through,” Sherlock drolls. “She’s cheating, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you-” Greg’s brow furrows, and for a split second Sherlock wonders if he’s about to be hit, but then a smile breaks through, and a familiar bark of a laugh. “Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you can still do that, can’t you? God, I thought you might've grown out of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know why you would have thought that,” John says drily. “You remember when he told the whole school the headmaster was wearing a toupee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well he was,” Sherlock notes idly. “And besides, I was eight, and it wasn’t a very good one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True. Glad one of us still has some fashion sense, Sherl.” Harriet pats the seat next to her. She doesn’t look well- withdrawal, he would guess, and he should know, but she’s apparently tempering the symptoms with a large mug of ale that she’s sipping very, very slowly. He’d try it, but alcohol has never worked to calm his mind the way other substances have. Pity, really. It’d be much easier to get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harriet busies herself inquiring about his outfit, and slowly they all order, settling in with something of a companionable air. Tales are told of Lestrade’s illicit motorbike, and Mycroft’s early acceptance to Cambridge. John avoids the war, of course, Molly speaks with too much glee about her work with the dead just one town over in Upper Alderry. Perhaps unsurprisingly, of all of them Stamford seems to have turned out the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He carries the conversation with details of his parents' new residence in Spain, and their rather wayward efforts to decide to take up a new language in their retirement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost feels… companionable. For a brief second, Sherlock nearly feels content. Or at least as content as he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel. The mindless chatter has made his brain quiet, there’s no need for drugs-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then they finish eating, and Molly says it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So… do all of you remember why we’re here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harriet’s hand tightens around her glass. “Somewhat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We agreed,” Stamford adds. “We agreed if it came back-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That wasn’t- was all that even real, though?” John asks. “I mean- I saw some shit overseas, and I know too fucking well my brain isn’t what it was, but- we were kids. It could’ve been anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember much, myself, “ Greg says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Just that I gave my word and it was important I kept it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock glances at his brother, but Mycroft’s eyes have rather fixedly landed on the table. He won’t be one to talk first- Mycroft doesn’t care to admit that his mind has ever failed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Molly shifts quietly, still never wanting to be the center of attention. “I saw something. Recently. It was like- that boy who went missing from our class. Victor, um, Trevor? I saw him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The part of Sherlock’s mind that he tries the hardest to keep quiet gently shifts, like the creaking of stairs in a long abandoned house. Victor Trevor- small. Curly, fair hair. Kind. A friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s likely I remember the most,” Stamford says with a manufactured aura of calm confidence. “I believe it has something to do with proximity- my parents were still here, after all, so there were certain elements I never forgot, and then I moved back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did the rest of us… all forget?” Harry asks, looking around the table. For the most part, they nod, but Mycroft just casts a glance at Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… have pieces,” Sherlock says cautiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We all do, don’t we?” John asks. “I got some, soon as Stamford called-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I- recalled some before that.” Sherlock nods to Stamford. “But I imagine your recollection may be a touch more coherent. You begin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Stamford swallows. “When we were children, a number of our peers went missing. Some were found. Some were not. You recall that much?” He waits for the nods- at least they all agree on that. “We found out what was taking them, and we stopped it. But it seems we didn’t kill it, not really, because it’s- it’s definitely back. There are children missing, and- I’ve started seeing things in the locals, things I forgot about. There’s hatred where there was none before. Violence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were kids though,” Greg says, holding out his hands. “We couldn’t really have- I know we thought we did something, but-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We did,” Sherlock intones. “We were the only ones to face it directly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My brother is correct,” Mycroft agrees, his voice far softer than the voice of the so-called Ice Man Sherlock’s gotten used to hearing in the last few years. “We challenged something even I cannot... quite account for. And I have accounted for much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but, no offense here, but aren’t you coming off a coke bender?” It stings, coming from John, but Sherlock supposes he deserves that. “I mean, I am a doctor, I know the symptoms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off.” Harry raises an eyebrow at her brother. “You really gonna lecture us, there? Paragon of mental health, you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have to be here,” John says harshly, wobbling to his feet. He uses a cane now. Sherlock’s instincts say he doesn’t really need it- psychosomatic- but it’s clearly worse now. He throws off Greg’s efforts to get him to sit. “We were kids, we obviously don’t remember anything clearly-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock inhales. If they don’t believe him now, what’s the point? “If we don’t kill it, we’ll all be dead within ten years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The table stills. “What- how do you know that?” Greg’s voice is hushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see it. When I sleep, if I’m not- if I haven’t taken something to aid the process.” His hands are sweating already. Why did he let his brother rid him of his stash for this? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stupid, Sherlock</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I’ve seen all of it. Harry and I will go first, I’m sure you can guess the reasons why. John, you have a handgun in your nightstand, do you not? Lestrade and Stamford fall to crime- a stabbing, a break-in. Molly, you have an accident in your home, but you aren’t found for days. Don’t worry though, the cats don’t go hungry.” He looks across the table. “And my darling brother works himself to death. Heart attack.” Sherlock opens his hands- it’s physically painful to do it, his knuckles want so badly to clench over something and </span>
  <em>
    <span>shake</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “We have to destroy it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John slides back into his seat, the color draining from his face. “How. How do you know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was the only one who went into the lights,” Molly notes. “The- the core of it, I think. Something happened there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That seems likely to me as well,” Mycroft adds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you guarantee that, though?” John asks. “I mean- drug induced psychosis aside-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scoffs as Mycroft leans forward. “I assure you this isn’t psychosis, doctor, though perhaps you should look more directly at the psychosomatic cause of your-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s boots hit the floor, hard. “Oi, fuck off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest is cacophony. Sherlock leaves Mycroft to do the arguing, and Harry isn’t willing to have her brother undefended either, and for a brief moment he actually feels calm as all white noise of the shouting drowns out his own thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop- stop it- don’t you see it?”  His eyes open. Molly has risen from the table, and he follows her gaze to the back wall of the pub, where darkness is spreading across one wall. Sherlock stands as well. “Look, dammit!” she yells, finally cutting across the bickering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Red seeps from the gaps in the old wood, drawing out lines, and behind that seepage there are… rats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bloody hell,” he hears his brother mutter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow it’s like there’s no one else in the pub- no one else </span>
  <em>
    <span>sees</span>
  </em>
  <span> this, and it’s just like being in Sherlock’s own head except all of them see it too. The shape moves into curling, swirling, </span>
  <em>
    <span>living</span>
  </em>
  <span> words.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you miss me?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Harry exhales. Sherlock can feel them all shifting back, away from the wall, slow and cautious-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the rats </span>
  <em>
    <span>move.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Molly screams and leaps on the table, John’s swinging away with his cane as Harry and Mike go for stools and bashing, Mycroft’s running them through with the end of his umbrella, and Sherlock-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock freezes. Something’s wrong with it, something his mind is between processing, and he can’t figure out what until the barkeep yells at the lot of them. “Oi! The fuck is wrong with you lot? Don’t make me cut you off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes glance over and back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rats are gone. The smears of blood they’d tracked along the floor, the wall- or the blood that had led them- all of it is gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t real.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows. “Perhaps we should consider that our perceptions of reality can be altered, if that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>wishes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But we all- we all did see that, right?” Molly asks as Mike helps her down. “How- it’s the middle of the day….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The creature remembers us,” Mycroft intones, brushing the lint from his suit as though he hasn’t just been stabbing imaginary rats. “I expect it maintains… an influence. We must be cautious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’re all here now, and we have the chance to stop it,” Stamford says, signalling for another round that even he looks rather in need of. “So why don’t we start with piecing it back together, shall we?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>April, 1988- John</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are seven vacant seats in the school now, and no one talks about it. Two vanished early in the last summer, another one in the fall. Two in the winter. Another one at the tip into spring. And now it’s nearly summer again, the Bradley girl’s gone, and still no one has done a thing. John used to be friendly with Sherlock, but he’s been like a stone since his sister disappeared: silent and unreadable. The empty seat that should be occupied by Victor Trevor sits between them like some sort of impassable void. Molly Hooper hovers behind a chair behind Sherlock, fidgeting with the little silver cross around her neck and trying her best to look invisible.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s taken to walking home hand in hand with Harry. Two is safer than one, and at least if they go… well, they’ll go together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’d be better than either of them being left alone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a longer walk, but one they’ve done for as much as their lives as they can remember. Pass the library, go down through the center of town, and walk on into the span that used to be farmland. Some lord a long time ago, even before Musgrave was built on the opposite hill, mapped out his farmland with spots of little tenant houses, and one of those became the tiny Watson home. It keeps them a long ways outside of things, which used to feel a bit like paradise. The pair of them, running wild in the wood, with a distant memory of the mother who called them her little Artemis and Apollo. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, though, it feels dangerously distant. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pass the library as dark clouds roll in, then the pharmacy, waving hullo at Mrs. Stamford inside. Her son’s at the till, reading a comic book. Mike’s decent, and he’ll usually lend John his old books if he asks to borrow them, without seeming to mind that John’s younger. “Do you want to stop?” Harry asks. It’s self-interest, at least a little: if she looks sad and bats her eyes are Mrs. Stamford somehow little cakes and biscuits always manage to turn up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah- think it might rain, we should get back before.” John could do without a fight with his da over who tracked in water, even if the biscuits are good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They turn at the old stone village sign and carry on, heading down the slope toward the Bell House.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It looms, always ominous in its crumbling stone. Rumor has it that its foundations are older than the town, some old pagan circle that a vicar tried to bury over. But the church didn’t last, and eventually some enterprising spirit made it into a house, with the old church bell sitting silent in its tower. Johnny doesn’t know why it’s still standing, crumbling as it is, but apparently it’s historic or summat so no one will touch it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As they near the gate, Harry tugs at his hand. “Who’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John looks up. There’s a man in the Bell House, watching them. Pale skin and too-wide eyes, and a smile that seems far larger than it should. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He gives John the creeps. “Dunno. Vagrant, maybe.” There aren’t too many in Alderry, but it does happen. John offers a smile to Harry. He’s good at brave faces, always has been. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When his eyes drift up again the man is gone, only a dark curtain left drifting in the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good. Fucking creepy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harriet. Johnny boy,” a voice calls through the gaps in iron fencing. Long fingers wind around the rod, pale and bony, the nails sharp and dirty at the ends. “Heading home already?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They pause. It’s- they shouldn’t stop, John knows that, but there’s something… compelling about that voice. Something that </span>
  <em>
    <span>makes</span>
  </em>
  <span> you listen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John glances back. “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, but I’m not a stranger, am I, Johnny?” The figure draws closer, a wide-eyed, wide-mouthed man peering through the bars. His hair is dark, and John can see an old-looking suit on the other side of the vines and shrubbery winding their way up the fence. “I know you so well. You too, Harriet! And I know there’s nothing really for you to head home to, is there? No, no. Nothing at all. You could stay here, instead!” His face presses forward, pulling oddly between the bars, almost like his cheeks might be made of plastic. “I could be your new daddy, and we could stay here forever and ever. What do you think of that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry squeezes his hand. “We have a da.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do, but he’s not much of one, is he?” The man slinks closer, patrolling the other side of the bars like a caged panther. “Do you two know the tale of Hansel and Gretel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” they both reply. There’s a sinking feeling in John’s stomach, like he should run, but… he can’t figure out why. It’s just a man. A weird looking one, sure, but he’s on the other side of a fence. John’s a Watson, he shouldn’t be scared of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, what if I told you I could give you all the sweets you could ever want? Fun and games and sweets, so long as you stay my friends forever. What do you say?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I… don’t think so.” Harriet says, firm as she can. John nods as well, tugging her hand as they step back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve got to go home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand swings out, the arm stretching too long, claws snapping an inch away from their faces. “I’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>take</span>
  </em>
  <span> you home.” The voice shifts, growling, echoing, and they turn together to run, small feet pounding into the old roadway from that horrid stretched face peering through the fence posts, mouth widening into a maw of teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <b>April, 1988- Sherlock</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after Sherlock begins to talk again, no one will listen to him when it comes to Eurus. Mycroft doesn’t bother trying with their parents at all, and the police are no use. They turn to the one place they trust not to lie to him and vanish into the library on a nearly permanent basis, researching and collating and researching more, though Sherlock often must catch up after the fact if he’s been dragged off by their parents to yet another attempt at child psychotherapy. There must be something on this- this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> that took the face of their sister, and one of them is going to find it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They have a list now of all the children in the town who’ve gone missing. It’s longer than anyone should be comfortable with, but it’s as though for each of those children people only cared for a week, a month at most, and then they just vanished, remembered only by their pictures of fading paper posters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look at this, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s seated in front of several spread-out newspapers, skimming year to year working backwards. His teachers would be impressed if he bothered to apply himself this way to schoolwork, but those assignments aren’t nearly half as interesting as trying to sort out a murder. The set he has open is from the mid-sixties, specifically 1966 and 67. The articles aren’t from the front page- no, they’re casual mentions near the back. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Child’s Body Found</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Animal Attack Suspected.</span>
  </em>
  <span> A few personals as well, though these seem to be pleading for teenagers to come home. “Just like us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft worries his lip. “Twenty-two years… hm. Unusual.” Sherlock can see his brother’s mind turning alongside his own, two matching gears in a greater machine. Could something like this be cyclical? Perhaps. Whatever that… thing… is that they saw in the well, the thing wearing their sister’s face, it’s not like anything else he’s heard of before. “It’s somewhere to start, at least. I shall find… 44 and 45, then, and you look for 22 and 23, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock nods. “Got it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s not much in the war-era records, unsurprisingly. People had other things on their mind, and missing children were hardly the first priority. Any mention is something passing, buried under bombings and far greater fears. As for the twenties… those records aren’t anywhere obvious, despite Sherlock’s thorough searching. “It only goes back to 1930, from what I can tell. But there must be older records, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hums. “Sherlock, in all your illicit wanderings, have you been in archival storage?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “No, but I know where the door is. I went down the steps there once- it smelled odd. I didn’t like it. I think the archive room is locked, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They look as one toward the librarian’s desk, where Mr. Gallagher is diligently stacking books on a cart to be returned to their proper places. Mycroft makes a quiet humming sound. “He’s already distracted. The keys are behind his desk, I can see them from here. I’ll ask him something tedious and you grab them, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.” Sherlock has never been one to back down from a challenge. “We shall meet at the door.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brother nods and heads off, starting in on a series of questions regarding reference texts for an obscure physics problem that Sherlock knows full well Mycroft had solved and memorized at least three years previous. He slips slowly into a crouch, slinking behind the counter as Mycroft leads Mr. Gallagher off toward the academic texts and pinches the keys into his fist carefully to keep them from clattering. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His other hand snatches up the small emergency flashlight. One can never be too prepared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quickly, he sprints down the stairwell and into the dark basement. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He has atonements to make, Sherlock knows that. His mind- his mind should not have shut down the way it did. He is not as clever as Mycroft, not that he’d ever say so to his brother, but Sherlock does pride himself on being far more intelligent than average children. Average adults are, of course, not worth speaking of.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He should be able to handle this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>For Eurus.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The archives feel far more damp than an area meant for books should be, the air musty with rotting paper that wafts through as soon as he unlocks the door. Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Books are not meant to smell like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, he creeps forward, casting his flashlight about on the old labels. They haven’t been well tended, most are carelessly flaking away in the damp. “Why does no one in this town care for history,” he mutters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There was a flood here several months ago,” Mycroft announces as he appears behind Sherlock without warning. Sherlock uses all his mental fortitude </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to jump in fright, thanks much elder brother. “It’s a disgrace that this still hasn’t been treated.” He pads around the edge of the room. “A burst pipe, I believe. Perhaps no one bothered to check.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock continues scanning the labels, already mentally working out how to climb up to the higher shelf that he’ll need, when a stepladder lands next to him. Mycroft raises one dark ginger eyebrow. “You were about to do something daft.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brother mine, it is pointless to argue with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a matter of physics, dearest brother.” Sherlock shakes the ladder. “You’re taking the fun out of everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes, the great enjoyment of a shattered tibia.” Mycroft is trying not to smile, but Sherlock can see it all the same. “Use the ladder, Sherlock.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his eyes dramatically, but inside Sherlock thinks this might actually be </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoyable. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It’s reminiscent of their younger years, when Mycroft actually deigned to play pirates with him, carrying Eurus on his shoulders as they laid siege to his stronghold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without Eurus, playing pirates feels like the distant past. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He climbs up as Mycroft holds the ladder, a shaky wooden thing with rusted nails holding it together. The boxes with the years he wants are near the top, and even with the stepladder it’s hard to reach them. Careful pulls drag them closer, off-balance and dusty. “Get ready to catch these if they fall, alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first box tips over the side in a wave of dust and debris, and Mycroft catches it despite needing to blink through the haze it casts into the air. Sherlock gets the second with the tips of his fingers, barely balancing it as he steps down the ladder. “Is this it?” Mycroft asks as his brother clambers down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think so.” Sherlock tugs the flimsy lid off the box- this hardly seems like a good storage method. The newspapers fall out as the box collapses, alongside a collection of photos- the original photos taken for the newspaper, if he had to guess. He thumbs through them. Boring society things, mostly, politics, a carnaval-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses as Mycroft inhales sharply beside him. “What is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shaky hand reaches down, pointing at one of the photos. The figure is thin, but finely dressed, a shadow behind the focus of the photo. He’s grinning sideways at the camera, a too-wide smile curving upward like a knife. “That face,” Mycroft breathes. “That’s who I saw down there. Behind Eurus in the well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That can’t be right.” Sherlock flips the photo over. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Summer Carnival, 1922. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Even if he was still alive, he’d be ages older by now-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flips it back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man has slid to the center of the photo, still smiling, a hand lifted in a wave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft backs away, picking up the flashlight and holding it like he’s getting ready to swing it. “Sherlock-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. He knows he saw- something- in the well, something that looked like Eurus, but this is a photo- photographs can’t be manipulated like this, not while he’s holding it in his hand-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock blinks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Less than half a second later, and the figure is moving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Waving. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And stepping toward the frame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He drops the photo as the figure’s fingers curl around the edge of the picture, all too real as it pries its way out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock, </span>
  <em>
    <span>run</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” his brother shouts as Mycroft grabs what he can of the other papers. “Go, go now!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock only chances one glance back as he makes it to the stairs- just enough to see the man climbing out of the photo, his fingernails carving lines into the stone floor, his laughter echoing like the inside of a cave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>April, 1988- Mycroft</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just- keep running,” Mycroft pants, chasing his smaller brother up the stairs. Sherlock is more nimble, of course, he always has been. His own instincts lead toward watchful waiting, not diving in- or running from, as the case may be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They burst up the stairs and clatter out into the daylight. It doesn’t matter whether Gallagher’s seen them or not. What would he do, bar them? Few enough children favor the library as it is, except when school mandates it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides, clearly the man doesn’t go downstairs that often.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft leans up against the building, breathing hard. He knows what he saw and yet it’s still hard to believe it. Creatures like that are meant to be the stuff of imagination and dark fairy tales not… reality.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet, apparently it is his own definition of reality that must change.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hears the bikes coming before he sees them and quickly analyzes. Mycroft is in no shape to run, not when he’s just escaped that horrid basement. “Sherlock-“</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you still hiding from Sebastian Moran? You know he’s an imbecile.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not </span>
  <em>
    <span>hiding</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but if one of us is to be punched today I would rather it be me.” Moran and his ilk used to be a mere nuisance, schoolyard bullies that were far more talk than action. Lately, though… they’ve gotten steadily more violent. Mycroft’s had his fair share of it in the form of bruises and red eyes he won’t let anyone see. “And don’t let him catch you calling him that, because he doesn’t care how old you are, and imbecile or not his fist does not rely on his intellect to strike.” He glances up- and there’s Sebastian’s grinning face, closing in on him like a shark that’s just spotted easy prey. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock hisses under his breath. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> told him he’s as dull as a fence post, and he didn’t do anything to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>outran</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. Not all of us have that luxury.” Mycroft shoves their notes into his bag, stumbling off the wall. “Go. Get home, before they close in, or we’ll both be stuck here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi, Holmes!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bollocks. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thrusts his bag at his brother. “Take the notes. Keep them safe. I’ll meet you at home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft, you can’t seriously-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I can, now </span>
  <em>
    <span>go.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He pushes his brother off, stepping between him and the incoming swarm. “Run. Run fast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a rare thing that Sherlock listens to him, but he must hear the insistence in Mycroft’s voice- or the slight tinge of fear, though Mycroft would deny it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brother runs, Mycroft’s large bag in hand, and ducks into the alley behind the library.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft steels himself and slowly turns, making sure he’s visible enough that Moran won’t get distracted by Sherlock’s absence. It’s likely a success- Moran and his lot are drawing up and riding circles around him, replete with a wide selection of oinks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Charming. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Still, he stands tall with his shoulders back, keeping his face still and his breathing even. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fatcroft Holmes!” Moran slides into his path, and for a cowardly second he contemplates running back inside, not that it would accomplish anything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand closes on his shoulder as the other goons close in behind him, jerking him back. “Outside the family tower, Holmes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Risky business, that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think we should shake him until some of Mummy’s money falls out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or some cake!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They laugh. They always laugh, as they have been since he started being required to face the indignity that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>school</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Mycroft wills his face into unbothered stoicism. “Was there something you needed, Moran?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Need? Nah, mate.” Sebastian’s goons laugh behind him, fists shaking in the back of Mycroft’s jacket. “Just having a bit of fun, ain’t that right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of them pushes, another yanks his foot under Mycroft’s ankle- there’s no stopping it once gravity’s in motion. His elbow hits the stone corner of the library stairs, hard, and Moran’s laughter rings in his ears as he tumbles headlong into the gravel. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See that, lads? Like a fucking dough ball!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god! I’ve got a cravin’ for donuts!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They ride around him, kicking rocks at Mycroft, forcing him to wince and lift his scuffed arms to shield his face, curling in on himself as much as he can. “Better get used to taking it on your back, eh, Holmes? That’s all you posh sort are good for.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kicks the gravel once more, hard, cackling as it spills over Mycroft’s face. The others are laying into his legs, his hips- he’s certain this time Moran’s actually going to go for his face, when a low hum rises nearby and the others suddenly back off. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi,” a voice calls, revving the rough engine of a motorbike at them. “Your mums know you’re out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck off, Lestrade.” Moran breaks off from the group and strides toward the rider. Mycroft chances a look. “Wouldn’t want to break that pretty nose of yours.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Won’t be able to if I happen to run you lot over.” He revs the engine again. “Great tragedy, that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure?” The motorbike revs again. “Go wank each other off like you lot usually do. Or you can stay and find out if your bikes won’t crumple under my wheels.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They glare at each other, the rider and Moran, for a long moment, before Moran breaks off with a snarl. “Let’s go, lads. Bakery’s still open, n’I’m craving cake.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft waits for them to get well clear before he slowly rises, wiping dirt and gravel from his face. As he looks up, he realizes several things in rapid succession.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>First, Gregory Lestrade in riding leathers is nearly criminal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Second, motorcycles are a gift to humanity and he doesn’t know why this has never crossed his mind before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Third, he is hopelessly and flamingly homosexual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft tells himself not to blush, not this time, but it probably doesn’t matter with all the dirt on his face. Hopefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mycroft? You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, this is not the dignified manner in which he thought he’d finally start a conversation with Lestrade, but needs must. “I’m fine, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sure?” Greg shakes his head. “I’ve been fucking trying to get them run in for trespassing on my da’s land for months, but apparently the police in this town are a bloody joke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft snorts. “You aren’t wrong in that assessment.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>They certainly didn’t manage a damn thing for Eurus.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Greg pops off the bike, offering a leather-gloved hand out. “I, ehm. I didn’t believe you knew who I was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really? ‘Course I do! You skipped up a year into mine, how would I not notice that.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Right. Because as usual my only value is my mind. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That's fine, everyone else sees him that way, Greg wouldn't have any reason not to. </span>
  <span>“Besides, I’ve learned loads more listening to you answer things than that shite they go over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft worries his lip, something fluttering in his chest. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah. Didn’t get a whit of that Shakespeare nonsense ‘til I heard you do that monologue.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?’” Mycroft smiles. “I believe I was assigned that one because our dear instructor finds me as cold-hearted as Angelo.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grins back, running a hand through his sinfully shiny dark brown hair. “He’s not, though. That’s the point, isn’t it? He’s an arrogant tosser, but it’s not because he’s cold. It’s because he’s a hypocrite.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, yes. Amongst other faults.” Their eyes meet- it’s too much, as Mycroft shifts his weight, raising his hand to brush some more of the dirt from his jacket- “Ow!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re bleeding.” Greg’s broad hand closes over his arm, but he lifts it so gently that Mycroft may as well be a butterfly in that careful grasp. “You ought to get something on that.” Mycroft stares at him, slightly open-mouthed to be so close to- something he hasn’t quite let himself admit, not really. Not even in his own mind. And Greg doesn’t seem too different, not up close, not chewing on his lower lip as his eyes lift to Mycroft’s. “Could I, um. Would you like a ride to yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft swallows. “Yes. That would be. Nice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg smiles. “Hop on, then. And hang on to my waist. Tightly- tight as you like. I won’t mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels- safe, nestled here against Gregory’s back. Safer than he’s felt in a while.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like maybe there’s still a spot of good in the world after all.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2011- Greg</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The haze feels like it’s lifted, just a bit. Pieces are falling back into place in his head, whole sections of his childhood he’d forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How do you forget a whole decade?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So- I’ve done a bit of research,” Stamford says, sliding some photos across the table. It’s something runic and </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but nothing he recognizes. “I know it looks- well. I know how it looks. But I think we might have a chance here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What it is, exactly?” Sherlock is already leaning forward, fingers steepled, eyes absorbing everything. “This appears to be Lepontic in origin, but some of these symbols are….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Non-linguistic. Yes.” Stamford adjusts his glasses, hands wrapped around his mug. “I believe there is a way of- focusing ourselves, so to speak. We cannot go back against it without fully reminding ourselves of what we did the last time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are we sure we should?” Harry asks, one combat-booted foot tapping against the crossbar of her chair. She’s been trying not to drink much, Greg’s noticed, but it’s making her antsy. “I mean- I know what Sherlock said about us dyin’ n’all, and even sayin’ I’m willing to buy into that- what will remembering how shite this all was the last time really do other than freak us out more?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t even remember how we beat it,” Molly whispers, so small in her great big sweater. “We should know that, at least, shouldn’t we?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would we do it?” Greg asks, looking at Mike. “If we wanted to remember.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Talismans, of a sort. Something that will ground us to our pasts, something of worth to the children we were. My understanding is that, if we truly choose to believe in this, then we will recognize the correct object when it appears.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if we don’t?” Harriet’s arms are crossed, tightening across herself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike smiles thinly. “Then I suppose it won’t really matter one way or the other, will it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They break apart for a while after, to think. Greg finds himself outside in fading sunlight, sitting on the hood of his shitty car and smoking as he scrolls through his phone. Janey’s been calling. And texting. And leaving charming messages that he cycles through without bothering to listen to all of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Did you actually drive off on me, you prick? How dare you? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve got some bird up there, haven’t you? You bastard, I knew you were-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If you think I’m going to take this lying down-</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s strange, really. Whenever he’s apart from her it’s so much more clear what a wreck their whole relationship is. He should’ve gotten out </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> ago. But whenever he’s in the same room, it’s like- white noise. Somehow his brain’s gotten miswired along the way, and he catches himself buying into her shit. Of course it’s his fault that she’s not fulfilled, or whatever line she’s giving him, of course she had to cheat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe the issue with his memory isn’t just to do with Alderry. Maybe his brain’s just fuckin’ broken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Those things will kill you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks up. Sherlock’s there, hands buried in his oversized coat. “Yeah, probably. Not sure you should be calling the kettle black on that one, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock snorts. “Perhaps not. Is it that obvious?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re in withdrawal. I’m in the police, you’re not the first I’ve seen.” He pulls a cigarette from his pack and holds it out, lighting it when Sherlock begrudgingly takes it from him. “Seem to be bearing up decent enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe. I would be bearing up better if my brother hadn’t insisted I discard my- supplies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In his defence, I think he’d prefer not to lose a second sibling.” Greg blinks, inhaling as his words hit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eurus. Her name was Eurus. </span>
  </em>
  <span> “Sorry- that was insensitive-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was truthful, Sergeant. It is sergeant, yes? Detective sergeant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah. Not a lot of, uh. Advancement. At my station.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock hums. “You would be better suited in London.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe.” Greg scratches the scruff already creeping across his face. “I’d wanted to look there first, but, uh. My wife didn’t want to leave her friends, and….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, we’ve already established that she’s a deceitful harlot, so I don’t see why you should take her opinions under any further consideration.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg barks a laugh. “God. I wish it were that easy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suspect, Sergeant Lestrade, you are making things more difficult than they have to be.” Sherlock puffs and exhales in a perfect ring, the git. “You should ask Mycroft. I’m sure he would be able to see to a transfer for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is he in law enforcement?” Greg had guessed based on Mycroft’s suit alone that he’d gone into banking or something else posh and well-funded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not precisely, but I assure you he can assist.” Sherlock looks pointedly down the road, where Mycroft has been on his own phone since they stepped outside, looking quite serious. “Ask him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, alright. After we sort this out, though. Not really the time for a job interview, is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t know. Eldritch beast, multiple deaths. Seems like the perfect time to me.” Sherlock swirls off- he’s always been dramatic like that, even when he was little. “Anyway. Think about it!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah.” Greg exhales smoke, his gaze drifting back to Mycroft. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He can’t really be in law enforcement. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Mycroft’s brilliant, he remembers that- well, now that he remembers Mycroft at all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How did we all forget? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe it’s GCHQ, or something like that. He can see Mycroft as an analyst, maybe, the Q in a Bond film. Maybe he will ask, after- a drink, or something, maybe- maybe dinner, if he’s being bold-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The thought makes him smile, looking to the ground as heat blooms under his collar. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nah, mate. You’re just being fanciful. </span>
  </em>
  <span>There’s no way Mycroft Holms is still single, not after all these years. He’s probably got a rich husband, someone else clever. Someone on his level.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, when Greg looks up, Mycroft is looking back with those grey eyes fixed on him, and a part of him can’t help but hope.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Mycroft</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just a few days longer, Anthea. I’m sure they can manage. And do remind any interested parties that I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>due </span>
  </em>
  <span>the leave. Legally, if necessary.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll tell them to put their big boy trousers on, sir,” his assistant chuckles through the phone. “But do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> need anything? I know you said it’s a personal matter, but if there’s anything at all I can do-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sadly not in this instance, my dear, but I do appreciate the thought.” Mycroft glances back up the road. His brother is back there, outside the pub, speaking with Gregory Lestrade. For some reason that makes him want to march back immediately, just to ensure Sherlock isn’t saying anything embarrassing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lord knows why that is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m afraid I must ring off, Anthea. Please tell them it truly is emergencies only until I return, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bless that woman. Mycroft doesn’t know that he would manage half as well without her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He glances back up the road and there’s Lestrade, looking at him. His hair has begun to silver, now- early, Mycroft supposes- but it suits him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, there’s one memory from childhood intact. </span>
  </em>
  <span>At least he has maintained the same taste in men after all these years.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Walking back up the street, Mycroft wonders if he’s only kept up his terrible smoking habit for purposes of asking other men for a light- though he doesn’t even need to ask, as Greg has a lighter out as soon as he approaches. “You know your brother was just reminding me that these will kill us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Was he?” Mycroft would call that altruistic if he hadn’t actually met his brother. “He is correct, in this instance.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve been quitting on and off for an age, it’s just….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite.” Mycroft exhales. This is his chosen vice, and he knows it too well. “Well. I honestly never thought I’d return here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me neither. Forgot about it wholesale, I think.” Greg looks askance at him, those dark eyes still bright even behind the signs of tired wear on his face. “Did you? I mean, with Sherlock here….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shakes his head. “I did not- delete it, really, not when my family was still here, it was more that… I always had the urge to stay away. I knew something had happened, I knew it had caused a great deal of pain. Of course, I remember Eurus being gone, if I really put my mind to it, but if I did not, it would… blur.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grunts. “Same. S’like I moved to start police training and the rest… vanished.” He huffs a laugh. “I can’t even remember leaving, can you believe that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not surprising. You didn’t have any ties here, and I….” Mycroft does the math. He’d lost Greg from much of his memory but he can calculate by his own age. “I was accepted early to Cambridge. I imagine you must have departed a few years after that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh,” Greg breathes. His hand reaches out, grasping Mycroft by the shoulder. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>missed</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. God, how did- you left, and I missed you, but I was so proud of you. I don’t think I got the chance to tell you that, and then- after you were gone, you just- holy shit, I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft blinks. “You were… proud of me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I was! I still am, Mycroft.” Watching a smile bloom across Greg’s face is not far off from watching the sun rise. “I mean, clearly you’re doing alright. Look at that suit!” Mycroft blushes, his gaze dropping to his feet. He’d forgotten how easy this had been- how Greg supported him as he was. It wasn’t anything like his parents, or his mentors, who only ever saw what they could mold him into. “Sherlock said you’re- well he didn’t exactly say what you do, but you have something to do with law enforcement yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He grins wryly. “Of a sort. I have a… very minor civil servant role. Nothing outrageous, I assure you, but it does permit me a fair number of connections with various agencies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughs. “I’ll bet. Minor official my arse- no, you protest all you want, I know better. Bet I’d have to sign something just to hear what this minor role is called, hm?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft lifts a brow and shrugs. “Perhaps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thoughts so. Christ. Well, I bet you’re great at it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s simply so… earnest. Even though Mycroft knows the worth of his mind, he’s never felt much credited as a… person… in his role, save perhaps by Anthea, and very occasionally Lady Smallwood. “Would you- do you have a hotel booked?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, no. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen here- thought maybe I’d ask Mike if I could kip up on his couch-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should stay with me.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span> stay with me, he wants to say, but this isn’t something he can beg for. “It’s- the place is enormous, and Sherlock and I have more than enough room already.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That would be- I mean, if you’re sure-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m very certain, Gregory.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then yeah.” Greg smiles at him. “I’d like that a lot.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- John</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re, uh.” John blinks at his sister. Harriet somehow looks older than he remembers, which might make him more of an arsehole than he thought. When was the last time they actually saw each other, and didn’t just put up with a phone call for five minutes to make sure the other one was still alive. “You’re drinking less?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good opening, Johnny.” She sighs, kicking her boots up on someone else’s abandoned chair. “Should’ve taken up smoking. Seems like everyone else did.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Doctor Watson.” She eyes him pointedly as she takes a swig from the water she’d grabbed after the main conversation broke up. “You’re still vice-free, then? Perfect specimen of man?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snorts. “Hardly.” His military-appointed therapist would most certainly disagree with that. “But I’m…. You know, it’s good to see you not, um.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Drunk?” Harry tips her glass in his direction. “Ta.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not- god, why are we so shite at this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Garbage role models, I’d assume.” She sighs, looking around the bar. John’s inclined to agree. Their mum had been good, what little he remembers of her, but….</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to go by the house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry lifts a brow. “Our house?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Mike said we’d need artifacts, n’I don’t know where else we’re going to find anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her brow furrows. “You don’t think he sold it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Frankly I think we’ll be lucky if it’s still standing.” Both of them had bailed on dear old da as soon as possible, and if he hadn’t gotten a death notice years back he’d think his father had passed out drunk and died somewhere inside. “Technically ours anyway, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suppose so.” She sighs. “You know, I was always surprised about that. Thought he’d have more debts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe he did and no one wanted it. Basically a shack in the woods, anyway.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, but the land? Some London prat wants a vacation home in the woods, it’s a good spot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John laughs. “In Alderry? They’d have to be desperate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah.” Harry chuckles. “S’pose they would.” She lets her foot dangle off the chair. It’s so funny to him that she’s the one who favors combat boots in her everyday ensemble, but it suits her. “So. The house? You want to do this today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?” He shrugs. “Still got some light. This or going to look for a room at that shitty inn down the road.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was gonna sleep in my car.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scoffs. “You were not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was, you berk. Cheaper, and I know my car doesn’t have fleas, or whatever.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ.” Stubborn, of course. Thanks, Watson genetics. “Stay with me, at least. I can find us an inn.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, share the room like when we were little?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Might as well, right?” He shoulders her, earning a swat to the arm. “We’re supposed to be remembering. Might help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh, fine. But you’re paying, there, Doctor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I am.” John sighs like he’s been put out, but he doesn’t mean it. Harry does seem a little more balanced than she has in a long time. Maybe that’s just how they’re wired. He always felt better on the battlefield, himself. Wouldn’t be surprising if she’s the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Watsons don’t belong in normal life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shall we run over now, then? Get it out of the way?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John nods. “Yeah. Better to get it over and done with.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Harry</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The beer she’d had during their little chat is doing its part to cover the shakes and pain, but god it’s not nearly enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s stupid, being reliant on something like this. Whatever dream she’d had made all of it taste terrible to her, like when she’d tried mango rum in college, vomited everywhere, and been unable to drink the stuff ever again without tasting the spit up. Drinking makes her nauseous. Not drinking makes her nauseous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Good job, body, glad to see we’re working just about as well as ever. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She pulls up to the lane to the house and has to stop. A tree lies across it, a moss-covered barricade. “Well, looks like no one gives enough of a shit to clean this up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Great.” Her brother shuffles his cane out, climbing out and leaning heavily on it. She hasn’t asked too much about that- he gets antsy whenever the war is mentioned- but she knows he needs it. “No home security needed when you can’t reach the damn place.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s the Watson way, that is.” She vaults over it, landing in a puddle on the other side. “Ugh, mud. Go around, John.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was planning to,” he says with an eye roll. “Some of us gave up our Olympic hurdling careers years ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aw, you think I could qualify? That’s sweet.” She walks a bit up the lane as he hobbles around with his cane. Watson stubbornness means she knows full well he’ll be offended if she offers help, so she’ll just wait.  The house looks a wreck. She can just see it from here, wood panelling falling off the sides and the roof crumbling. “Christ.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a wonder they didn’t tear it down,” John notes as he hobbles up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, well. S’pose we’re lucky they didn’t.” She rolls her neck, feeling a bit like she’s about to square up to some prick at the bar. “Let’s be quick before someone calls health and safety.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John snorts. “No chance of that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The front steps are a nightmare- anyone would call them a hazard, Harry’s sure of it. She holds her arm out for John without saying she’s offering, letting him put his weight on her while his leg’s acting up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The front door swings open with a slow creak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Didn’t bother to lock it, I guess.” She steps over the welcome mat, a worn mess that once was covered with pretty flowers and a cursive </span>
  <em>
    <span>Welcome to our home</span>
  </em>
  <span> adorning it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now all it manages to say between the shredded straw is </span>
  <em>
    <span>come home.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The house looks… neat, once their inside. Not too far off from her memory, really. Harry frowns. “Someone been keeping this up?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t think so. Squatter, maybe?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She steps further in, the old wood of the floor creaking under her feet. “Hello? Anyone there?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s cane clicks behind her, a slower but still steady rhythm. “Guess not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh. Well, alright then. Let’s see.” Harry steps over a stray, dusty bottle, heading toward her childhood bedroom. She and Johnny shared when they were small, but he took off for the army as soon as he could and she held out a little longer, making the space a bit more her own. A wilting poster for Ace of Base still hangs off one wall next to vacant slots that once held the tape cover for Elton and k.d. lang, before her da had banned both from the house and ripped them down. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>None of that queer shite under my roof, girl!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Strange that he hadn’t worked out that her Madonna posters were not up just because of the music.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The floor creaks as she walks in, the rug long ago thinned out too much to really stop the sound. Her bed is still shoved up under the window. When John left she’d moved it, mostly so she’d have an easier time sneaking in and out by herself. Her and da came to an understanding by the end, that her door would just be locked and she’d come out when she felt like it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The understanding was mostly that John had been the wall between them, keeping either side from too much grief. Harry Watson, left on her own? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hit back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry sits on the bed. It smells of dust, mostly, but there’s a familiar undercurrent there as well. Something like cheap grape body spray, which- yeah, there’s still a touch of glitter on the sheets from it too. She leans back on it, staring at the peeling ceiling. There’s got to be something here she can use- something better than her old Madonna wank pics, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A glint catches her eye, just behind the top ruffle of the curtain hanging over the window. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stands up on the bed, reaching above the window frame. It’s a stretch- it strikes her that when she was small she’d had John’s help, balancing with one foot on the edge of the bedframe to make it. Her fingers touch something cold, pushing, and it drops with a quiet thud onto the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a lighter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She frowns as she steps down. Their da didn’t smoke, he was more likely to be drinking. The lighter’s a heavy silver thing, engraved with flowers. It’d been- it’d been….</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry feels suddenly a bit like she’s out of her own body. A small version of herself sits on the bed- where it used to be on the left of the room. And there’s little Johnny on the right. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not supposed to take things,” Johnny says, looking nervous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” tiny Harry says back. “But he’d sell it. And he can’t sell it, it was mum’s.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Johnny kicks his tiny feet, dangling over the floor. “I don’t know why he got rid of all her things.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno either. But we get to keep this, okay? We’ll put it somewhere safe.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry blinks. The children are gone- it’s just her in the room now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her and the lighter resting in her hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Johnny?” she calls, listening for her brother’s cane. “I think I’ve got it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Sebastian</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He paces along the road, thumb extended, that low, dark voice echoing in his ear. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Come home come home come home.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And he will. He will. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Most cars drive past him, but there’s one that slows down as it drives by, pulling over up ahead of him. A thin, feminine arm covered in bangles waves out the window as he jogs up. At least he’d gotten all the blood off before he swiped a decent outfit from someone’s laundry line. “Where you heading, love?” the driver asks, obviously eyeing him up and down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, you’ll be easy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. He probably won’t even have to kill her. “Alderry. Most people don’t know it, but if you can just get me close-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, sweetie, you’re in luck.” She leans over and unlocks the passenger door. “I’m heading there too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you really?” He grins as he strides around and hops in. “Lucky for me. Usually can’t even find anyone who knows it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. Need to remind someone of their place in the world.” She bats her eyes at him. “How about you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The same, actually. Looks like we’re a good fit.” He holds his hand out, using his very best charming smile. Even though he’s been told it makes him look like a killer, she doesn’t seem to mind. If anything she seems… very, </span>
  <em>
    <span>very,</span>
  </em>
  <span> interested. “I’m Sebastian.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Janey,” she smiles back, licking her lip. “Oh, this is going to be fun, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His smile widens. “Sure is, Janey. Sure is.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>May, 1989- Greg</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, it’s so nice to see some of Mykey’s friends over. Biscuit, dear?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg smiles his best charming, shining smile and nods. Mrs. Holmes had made an… interesting face, when he’d turned up, but as soon as he said he was there to get some tutoring with Mycroft she’d let him in posthaste. “Ta, thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We just never see many of Mykey’s little friends anymore. You</span>
  <em>
    <span> must </span>
  </em>
  <span>tell me, does he have a girlfriend?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft buries his head in his hands, pink to his ears. “Mother. Please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What? You’re the one sneaking about all the time lately- don’t think I haven’t noticed. Well, Gregory?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg forces the smile to stay where it is and very carefully resists the urge to tease Mycroft a bit. “I’m afraid I’m just here to sort out my studies, Mrs. Holmes. I’d be completely lost without Mycroft’s help!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m sure, he is a genius, my boy, aren’t you? Of course, no one can really match him in your class, but it’s lovely that you’re trying.” She sets out some biscuits- on a crystal platter, no less, though from the way she’s acting Greg doesn’t think she realizes she’s using the good plates. There’s something about her that reminds him of Mycroft and Sherlock, though he’d never say as much. It’s like she’s operating on a slightly different wavelength from reality. “There you are. Now study hard!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft waits for the kitchen door to close with a rather pinched expression. “My apologies. She is…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s your mum, is what she is.” Greg laughs and bites into a biscuit. “You really don’t have to apologize.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are too kind for your own good, Greg.” Mycroft smiles quietly, glancing away as he pulls out his textbooks. “Now….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he’d really been honest with himself, saying that he could use some lessons in chemistry </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> have been a line. Maybe. Mycroft hadn’t been sure how to thank him after the incident with Sebastian, and Greg found himself a little lost in those earnest grey eyes, and all he could come up with was </span>
  <em>
    <span>tutoring. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Christ, he’s an idiot.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it’s probably for the best, because Greg has no idea how to actually turn a line into- well, anything. He’s not got that many mates at school, not real ones, not ones he’d ask about something like that. Greg’s great for casual acquaintance and mutual whinging about tests and the like, but none of those lads are the sort he’d offer up anything deeper about himself to. Certainly not that he’s known he likes blokes just as much as dames for years, and can’t seem to manage to pull either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft’s a bit different, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looks interested when Greg talks, even though Greg doesn’t think he really has anything interesting to say. Certainly nothing on Mycroft’s level of smart. But he pays attention anyway, and laughs when Greg’s been moderately funny, and that makes Greg feel… warm.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is the sort of shite they should teach in school.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg zones back in to Mycroft’s patient voice, softly explaining the parsing of a chemical formula, and tries his best to focus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mykey! Sorry, darling, you have to sign this before I drop it in the post.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, mother,” Mycroft says rotely. Greg eyes the seal at the top of the page.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cambridge? You get into one of those fancy summer courses?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, of course not, my Mykey is far too smart for that.” Mrs. Holmes beams. “He’ll be heading there as a student in the fall. This paperwork is just to ensure he’s placed with the most like-minded students they can find. It’d be a waste if he was room-sharing with one of those future lords who would ruin his studies with constant parties. There we are.” She plants a wet kiss on the side of Mycroft’s head. “Back in a jiff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An awkward silence falls at the table as she trots off in a hail of jangling keys and wrist bangles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg summons a smile, but has the feeling it’s not quite hitting his eyes. “So. Cambridge?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. I… well, it’s an accelerated course of study….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Figures that when he finally thinks he has a shot, fate steps in and smacks him back down. But… that’s alright. Greg’s just Greg, and Mycroft is bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>brilliant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He can do better than some mechanic’s kid.  “No, I mean. That’s fantastic. Yeah.” Greg nods, feeling oddly hollow. “You’ll do great there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft looks up, opening his mouth as if to dispute it, when Sherlock bursts through the door holding a stack of papers and a very old, very dusty looking… crossbow. “Mycroft. I’ve been through the files again, and I think there’s some evidence that we should investigate all bodies of water in the area… hullo, Lestrade… so I will need you to wrap up this farce posthaste and come with me to the river.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Knocking is considered an acceptable social custom, Sherlock,” Mycroft says in time with Greg lifting a brow and muttering “Farce?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Social customs are an agreed upon method of wasting each other’s time. Now, to the river?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft looks across at Greg, his jaw working. “This is, um….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it’s important to you, that’s fine.” Greg shrugs. “M’not gonna pick much of it, we both know that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent, we’re agreed. Lestrade, you shall drive us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I shall wut?” His eyes drift to Sherlock, who’s managing to look rather imperious for his age, all cross-armed and authoritative. “No, you both can’t fit on my bike.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can if I balance on the handlebars.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I won’t be able to see if you balance on the handlebars.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can duck. Besides, if things go awry, we shall need a quick exit, or, quite possibly, bait.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa.” Greg holds up his hands. “M’gonna need you to explain that, or we’re not going anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stares at the ceiling, sighing, as Sherlock jumps to sit on the table, dropping a stack of papers and the vicious looking crossbow on top of them. “Do you remember our sister, Eurus?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>May, 1989- John</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The river is quiet today. John and Harry have gone farther on than they normally would, further away from that place they found that backpack. He hadn’t been expecting to be joined by Molly Hooper, but he doesn’t mind it. The greater their numbers, the safer it feels. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think I could make this into tea?” Molly asks, holding up a pretty purple plant. “It looks like it would taste good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Only if you don’t like whoever’s drinking it,” Harry notes darkly. “Pretty sure that’s foxglove.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.” Molly looks disappointed, but Harry strides over, pulling one of the flowers off and setting it in Molly’s hair. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There. You can wear it instead.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John lifts a brow at his sister as she walks back toward her own project: making designs of mud and stone with sharpened sticks. “What?” she asks, shoving him out of her way. “I do pay attention sometimes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do wish I knew more about plants.” Molly’s taller than the twins, but thinner too, making her look a bit like a gazelle as she balances on an abandoned log. “I’d like to garden, but mum says if I’ve time for hobbies I should have more time to do things like tidy up and mend things for the church.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Isn’t that her job?” The Watson aren’t much for church, but John does know Molly’s pa is the vicar. “Or his, whichever. You didn’t sign up for that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The care and upkeep of the lord’s house is on all our heads,” Molly sighs, and John nods. They might have opposite households, but it’s the reason the three of them have wandered out in the wood before. It’s the best place in Alderry to hide out from one’s parents. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which also means they aren’t the only ones who use it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get him!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The three of them exchange looks, hearing the splashing coming their way. They know the voice- </span>
  <em>
    <span>everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> knows that voice. Not a kid in Alderry wants to deal with Sebastian Moran, even on their best day. Molly drops over the side of the fallen tree, peering out over it, and Harry and John scurry to join her a second later.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t that bastard find somewhere else to hang out?” Harry growls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly nods. “Normally I’d object to the language, but- he really is a bastard.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They watch as a figure rounds the corner, jogging into the river itself, probably in a bid to escape the bikes behind him. It’s a fail effort though- soon enough they’re on him, circling and taunting. John squints. “Is that… Mike Stamford?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course it is.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there is one person in Alderry John would say is unfailingly </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s Mike Stamford. Which means he’s exactly the sort of person Sebastian Moran loves to torment. His stout frame sloshes in the water, his thick glasses precariously hanging near the end of his nose. “Sebastian, come on,” he’s pleading as they shove at him, knocking him down into the water over and over. “There’s no need for this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Need? Why would I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do anything, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rat</span>
  </em>
  <span>ford? This is for </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the others laughs. “I’ve got it! Blind-as-a-bat-ford!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sebastian smirks. “Oh, yeah, that’s a good one.” He steps forward, holding Mike by the collar, and pushes, shoving his head under the mud-dirtied water. “Wonder what would happen if I just… don’t… let go, hm? Any bets on how long he can stay down there, lads?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John feels a shift beside him and instinctively reaches out a hand to stop Harry getting into a fight she can’t win- but it’s Molly who’s marching out there like a fury trapped in a twig, holding a rock that’s easily as big as her fist, the foxglove in her hair shivering in the breeze. “Let him go!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Moran’s little gang looks her way, snickering. “Or what, little Hooper? Gonna tell your da to pray for our poor little souls?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sebastian is mid-cackle when the rock smacks him squarely over the eye. He stops short with a cry like a wounded dog as the blood breaks and trickles down his cheek. “You little </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Think you’re the bitch now, Moran.” Harry says, evading John’s grasp with a rock of her own, hurling it at one of Moran’s lackeys. Molly picks up another- a worthy sacrifice of Harry’s design- and throws that too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John shakes his head, but marches out himself. “Fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Moran!” The three of them, chucking rocks, with, if John has to say so himself, pretty good aim, stuns the teens enough that Stamford can make a run for it, trampling through the water toward them under the cover of improvised artillery fire. He gets behind the smaller children, wiping the water from his eyes before joining in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Moran </span>
  <em>
    <span>growls. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I am going to fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill you,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you little pieces of shit-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He screams as a flash passes his arm, a red line drawn across it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John glances up. Sherlock Holmes is on the embankment behind them, a dark look in his eye, with his brother and, oddly, Greg Lestrade standing with him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Sherlock is holding a fucking crossbow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was a warning shot, Sebastian!” Mycroft calls. “I recommend you take yourself and your friends elsewhere.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fucking Holmes,” Moran grunts, but he’s bleeding now in several spots, the blood from his head wound leaking into his eye. “I’m coming back for you!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lovely, do that,” Sherlock snarls back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bikes turn and rush off, far less confident than they had been. Mike Stamford lets out a shaky breath. “Thank you- goodness, I thought he really was going to kill me that time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Molly says, sloshing toward him. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think my glasses are twisted, but… I can manage….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, here, let me.” Greg Lestrade jogs down the embankment, holding out a hand. “This is the sort of shite I’m actually decent at….” The metal bends in his hands, and John feels- slightly odd- about the way his biceps shift when he works on it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Huh. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. This is fortuitous. I expect we could use the additional hands.” Sherlock’s put down the crossbow, a piece of paper in his hand now. John edges toward him. It’s been ages since he heard Sherlock really talk- he’d been a ghost in their classroom for months, simply glaring if their teacher tried to ask him anything. That is, if he acknowledged their instructor at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’re you working on?” he asks. The others are still surrounding Stamford, and John can see the signs of impatience in Sherlock. He’s always been like that, focused on whatever his current priority is, everyone else be damned. John never minded it, really, even when Harry said Sherlock was bossing him around. It’d been good to have the distraction, some direction that didn’t mean thinking about whether or not his pa was going to be in a state when they got home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wow. His eyes are really blue.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strange that John never noticed before, with how long they’ve been friends. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Historical reports.” Sherlock waves a stack of paper, most of which looks like handwritten notes and… an assortment of maps and diagrams. “Mycroft and I went through the newspaper listings of where children have previously vanished, or at least where belongings were found. Going back as far as we could in the records, it seems several children engaged in household washing- girls, mostly, times being fairly sexist with such things- vanished in this area.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John blinks. “Vanished? Like, before everyone this past year?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It seems to have a rough recurrence of every twenty years,” Mycroft adds from his position supervising Greg and the rest. “Sherlock and I have been investigating, since….” He clears his throat. “Regardless, whatever it is seems to have been around for some time.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Yeah.”  He glances back to Sherlock, who still looks impatient. “So, what do you need?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock finds a roughly flat section of rock and lays his papers out. There’s a map of the town that’s been heavily annotated with arrows and markers in different colors and patterns that John assumes means something to the Holmes boys, even if it’s not obvious to him. Several of the marks are congregated around the river, but there are others scattered through the town as well, even a few out in the fields just outside. “My theory is that this- creature-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Creature?” Harry mutters, glancing over from the others.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know it sounds- mad, I know it does, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, and it…” Sherlock inhales deeply, stilling a voice that is threatening to turn shaky. “It took Eurus. I know it did. And it took all the others as well, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> will </span>
  <em>
    <span>listen</span>
  </em>
  <span> and-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” John puts his hand out- Sherlock’s never been much for hugging, or anything, but John puts a hand on his shoulder all the same. “We’re listening, alright? Just- try and go slow. We need to catch up to where your head’s at.” Sherlock blinks at him, and something about it is almost… surprised. Surprised that someone is taking him seriously, maybe? John squeezes his shoulder and nods. “I know you needed some time, but we’re still mates, yeah? You can tell us anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those big blue eyes blink at him again, and John feels something sort of shift in his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve got you, haven’t I?</span>
  </em>
  <span> It doesn’t matter that Sherlock didn’t want to- or couldn’t- speak after Eurus vanished. John’s still his friend.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. Yes. Ah-” Sherlock gestures to his paperwork. “1966. 1944. 1922. ‘22 was a particularly nasty year, though it’s hard to say if ‘44 seemed significantly less bad only because the older children were assumed to have run off to join the war. Every twenty-two years a batch of children go missing, and with them one or two adults. It could precede that, even, but we, um. Didn’t have time to dig through the entire archive….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would, um. Would 1658 be one of those years?” Molly asks, her eyes wide and nervous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes,” Mycroft and Sherlock say simultaneously, even as Greg is clearly trying to work out how to count that back in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, so that’s- the church was built that year, and I’ve read a lot of the founding records. Several young people vanished, and the vicar thought there might be a witch-” she swats at Harry as Harry scoffs. “Yes, I know, they were terribly ignorant and sexist. Regardless, a young witch hunter came to investigate. He brought several young ladies out to the river to test them and only one of them came back, running and screaming, saying she’d seen the devil come and take the others.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft purses his lips. “Did they find any of them?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about the runner?” Harry asks. “She get out of this shithole, at least?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, no. The vicar decided she was likely spared by the devil and therefore a witch herself, so… they hanged her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The group is silent for a moment, until Greg breaks it with a “Well that’s fucked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite.” Mycroft leans over his brother. “Regardless, it only strengthens our assertion that this creature must have an access point to the river.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can we- sorry,” Mike says, adjusting his glasses. “Can we clarify about the creature? What- what exactly is it you’re looking for?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That defensive look comes over Sherlock’s face again, and John squeezes his shoulder once more, bracing him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go on. We’re all friends here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“I saw- I thought I saw something drag her away. Just a blur, just the end, but- I knew it wasn’t right, no matter what anyone told me. And then Mycroft and I- we saw her again, but it wasn’t really her, it was more like….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like a puppet,” his elder brother says quietly, eyes on the water.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Like there was something beneath that- presentation of her. Something with… teeth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John feels his jaw twitch. His eyes meet Harry’s. “Actually, we might’ve… we saw something off too. But it was a man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His face was… wrong,” Harry adds. “Stretched, like. Too many… too many teeth.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He talked to us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock shrugs. “So did Eurus. But it wasn’t really her.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did he…” Mycroft flips through the paper until he finds it. “Resemble this?” The picture is a drawing, clearly done by one of the Holmes’s careful hands, though neither of them is an artist. Still, John can see the resemblance. It’s the man from the Bell House, thin and dark-haired and smiling in a way that’s cold instead of warm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. Or close enough.” John says.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At the Bell House?” Stamford asks. “I didn’t- well, I didn’t see </span>
  <em>
    <span>him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but I did see… I thought it was my Gran. Kept asking me to come in, only… she’s been dead years now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Actually,” Molly says. “I saw something odd there as well. I was- well, I was walking home, and something brushed my hair, and there was this </span>
  <em>
    <span>bat-</span>
  </em>
  <span> don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harry, I hate bats- and I swear it chased me down the road and there were more and more of them until I realized I was on the wrong street, and I was outside the Bell House, and it was like- it was like they were funneling me there, you know? But I just screamed, loud as I could and swung my purse, and when I opened my eyes again they were gone.” She blushes. “I didn’t tell anyone because, well. It sounds mad.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Seems like we’ve all seen it, then?” John asks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everyone’s eyes slowly drift to Greg, who sighs and starts fishing in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Listen, you do all sound mad, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve seen people being… odd. More violent than usual. Even tossers like Moran didn’t used to go around like he’s doing now, not caring if he happens to kill someone. And, uh…” he lights the cigarette and inhales, slowly. “My da’s brother went missing back in ‘67. Saw a picture of him once. My mum told me never to ask about him. He’d get weird if he thought about it, she said.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm.” Sherlock eyes Lestrade narrowly, then returns to flipping through his papers. “Well. I suppose this changes things a bit. If four of you have had experiences near the Bell House, that should provide a much more specific area to search.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft peers over his shoulder once more. “It also means whatever point of egress the creature has here is likely connected to a point of egress there, as well as in our well. Perhaps a cave?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sighs and heads back toward his bike. “Alright, I can see where this is going. I’ll meet you all at the Bell House in a bit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” Mycroft calls after him, a note of concern in his voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re looking to fight something, you lot are going to need more weapons than an old crossbow that takes twenty minutes to load.” Greg winks at Mycroft as he gets on his motorbike, and the way Mycroft’s cheeks flush makes John look from one to the other and back again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Huh. </span>
  </em>
  <span> “Just don’t go in without me. I’ll meet you there.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2011- Molly</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cats circle ‘round as Molly turns out her closet, looking for the bins of old things she’d saved when she’d moved out. Certificates and childhood memories, bits and pieces that meant something to her when she was twenty. None of it stands out, though, at least not the way Mike had said it would for a talisman. School had been- well, boring, mostly. Sherlock was the most interesting person by far in her year, and he’d skipped up a year shortly after the whole mess. Then Molly’d been accepted to a girls academy for sciences and….</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hadn’t really had many friends there either.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least the cats seem to like going through her old things. “You get some different smells, hm?” she asks as Vesa (properly Vesalius, though she only really calls him that when he’s being bad) stuffs his face into one of the bins. Shelley chirrups, climbing up her back for a better view. Molly scratches her soft little head. “It is alright if you have to eat me, you know. I know I’ve said it before, but if I’m dead and you’re hungry, you go ahead.” That, at least, had been one part of Sherlock’s vision of the future that hadn’t bothered her. If she’s dead, Molly doesn’t mind what happens to her body. Flesh is only flesh, after all, and the cats have to eat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, she’d rather prefer to go later rather than sooner, all things considered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She sighs and pulls another box closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Vesa growls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s odd, because Vesa never growls, not even when he’d gotten into a little territorial dispute over Molly’s garden with the tomcat who thinks he owns the whole village. Shelley was the one who tore off after the big tom and came back looking far too smug for her own good. “What’s wrong, sweet boy? Did a mousie get in?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She follows his gaze, fixed in the back of the closet, and tries to pull the box closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something holds it back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dirty nails reach over the opposite side of it, fingers curling around the cardboard. “Should’ve burned with them, shouldn’t you, girl,” a quiet voice slithers from the back of her closet. “Mortar the church in ash and blood in witch dust.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly grits her teeth and sets both hands on the box, pulling as hard as she can, though it doesn’t give. “You aren’t real. Go away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Daddy’s a pastor, isn’t he? He’d have burned you.” A little glint slowly opens, yellow eyes blinking at her through the darkness. “A girl who plays with dead things, that’s a witch, sure enough.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On her shoulder, Shelley’s claws begin to sink in, grounding Molly as she yanks and finally shifts the box a little closer, exposing a gray and decaying arm. “Get out of my house!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re all with me, you know,” the voice continues, turning into something closer to a hiss. “My witches. So much fun. And the witch-hunter. You used to love history, didn’t you, Molly? Come with me, and they’ll chat you right up!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both cats are yowling now, and Molly clenches with one hand, scrambling with the other to find- anything really, anything sharp, or heavy, or-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her hand finds a thick tome, an old hardcover collected Shakespeare from school, and she winds that up and bashes down on the decaying wrist, hard as she can. “Get out! Get out get out get</span>
  <em>
    <span> out-”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Doctor Hooper?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly looks up. One of her neighbors, Mrs. Grange, is staring through the window with an obviously lifted brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looks back toward the closet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s nothing there, only smashed cardboard and a very dented book.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Erm- hullo, Mrs. Grange! Sorry about the noise, just had a very- stuck drawer….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. Are you certain you’re-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just fine!” Molly puts on her best smile that also means </span>
  <em>
    <span>please fuck directly off</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Thank you, Mrs. Grange.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well… alright then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly hides her shaking until she’s out of view, back on the floor, her cats circling her. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> She can’t let that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> get in her head. “It’s not real,” she mutters again, setting the box right. “Just messing with me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something shiny slithers out of the box as she turns it, dropping on the floor. It’s a bit battered now, too small and delicate for an adult, but Molly wore it every day as a child, before too much death made her question the point of putting faith in a god that wouldn’t protect them from… this.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her brow furrows. Did it… not want her to have this?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It feels warm in her hand as she picks it up, like she’d only just taken it off, and she smiles. “There you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The drive back to Alderry is blessedly fast, as soon as she’s put out extra food and water for the cats in case they get bored trying to catch things in the garden. “Got it!” she calls as she skips back up the stairs to Mike’s little flat. “It has to be this- knew it as soon as I got my hand on it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well done!” Mike’s flat smells like cinnamon and lavender and cardamom and she stops short, lifting a brow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you stress baking?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t call it </span>
  <em>
    <span>stress</span>
  </em>
  <span> baking, per se. More like….” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly steps into the living room to find several tins of biscuits and little cakes next to bagged sandwiches. Each tin has been labeled with one of their names that would put the most mother-of-the-year types to shame. “More like clinical neuroses in food form?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, likely. But everyone will need to eat, and if we are stranded- you know, down there- at least we’ll have some food while we work it out.” He pops out of the kitchen clad in a fine tartan apron and gestures to an old shoebox on one of the side tables. “I found my token as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, did you! Fantastic, what is it?” She strides closer and spies a fairly large rock, one with a sharp edge that looks… familiar. “Oh my god, Mike, is this…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, yes. Pretty sure it’s the right one, at least- I pocketed it before we left that day. It was the only one I could find of the proper size, so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I cannot believe you kept this.” She turns it in her hand. Something about it… makes her feel powerful again. Fearless. Like the young girl who was willing to make that throw in the first place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, it was the first time someone other than my parents had come to my defense. Seemed like an occasion I ought to mark.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly marches over and hugs him. “You are a good egg, Mike Stamford.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, well. Thank you.” He ruffles her hair fondly. “Now. Would you prefer chocolate or….” He trails off as a horrid sound erupts from the street below, something like glass smashing and metal. “What on earth-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They run to the window, peering down between the curtains. There’s a car outside, and a man beside the Pharmacy's curbside sign, smashing it with a bat. Distantly, Molly thinks she can hear the sound of dark, familiar laughter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The man looks up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly gasps. Sebastian hasn’t changed much- his features are sharper now, broadened with age, but those hateful eyes are the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ratford! I know you’re up there. Want to come down, mate? We’ll have a nice chat, just like old times.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, bollocks,” Mike exhales. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly grabs his arm. “We have to go. Out the back, now, before he realizes we’re not boxed in.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Molly, this is- this is my business, what if he-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You have everything locked up, yeah? It’ll be fine, we’ll get out of here and we’ll call 999.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike makes a distressed noise, but thrusts a shopping bag at her all the same before running back into the kitchen. “Tins in there, please-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you doing?!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Turning off the oven, lest I manage to do Sebastian’s job for him and burn the place to the ground.” She can hear the sound of pans and metal, punctuated by his grumbling sighs. “These are my best biscuits, no less. Oh well.” He tears back out with his apron still on, grabbing the rock out of its box. “My car’s out front, so that’s out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mine’s around the corner.” Molly snatches up the little carryall she’d been using to kip on Mike’s couch and shoves the shopping bag at him. “You’ve got your phone, yeah? You can call on the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On the way where?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I know where at least three of them are.” She jogs down the stairs, shouldering her bag. “Call Sherlock. We’ve got to give them a warning in case Sebastian heads there next.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly hits the bottom of the stairs with a thud and wobbles- she shouldn’t have jumped the last two stairs, she’s getting too old for that- and </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> misses the sharp edge of a blade carving through the air next to her face. She screams out of instinct, falling back almost into Mike.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, Molls.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Up close, he looks even more manic than Molly remembers. There’s something bright and murderous in his gaze now, though, something much more homicidal than the teenage asshole he’d been. The knife draws back again and lunges down- there’s nowhere for her to go- she puts her arm up out of instinct, thinking maybe that if she can keep it away from her throat-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a loud metal clank as a bag of biscuit tins collides forcefully with Moran’s face, sending him hurtling into the wall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Car, Molly, now!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Molly runs.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Sherlock</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even in disrepair, the stone of the old manor still feels the same. Musgrave Hall has stood for a long, long time, and will likely stand for longer still, even if it ends up a scattered stone foundation covered in clinging vines. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After Sherlock departed for university, the manor became more of a country home for his parents while they travelled everywhere except Alderry. Majorca, Morocco, even a stint in Canada, all preceding a “retirement” to a property inherited by his mother’s family in France. Musgrave Hall, meanwhile, sat empty and mostly forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mostly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock hadn’t really remembered it at first. He’d gone off to study, throwing himself into chemistry and history and ignoring everything else, until the day he’d witnessed an accident in the laboratory. It was a little thing, really- they’d gripped a test tube too firmly and cracked it, splintering the glass and cutting their hand. Everyone else had assumed Sherlock had a sensitivity to blood, and that’s why he ran out of the room the way he did, but that wasn’t it at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was because he remembered seeing blood running like that before.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After that, the memories wouldn’t stop. They were fractured, broken things- terrifying things- but it was like his mind was creating connections to them as fast as it could, even as some other mechanism wanted him to forget. Drugs didn’t make him forget, exactly, they just… smoothed things. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Until the day he remembered the lights. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They came like a dream- bright, shining things that he wanted to reach out to, wanted to understand- only the second he grasped them, he knew. He knew exactly what would happen if they let all this come to pass again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock exhales, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stepping on the lingering glowing cherry. It’s not as if anyone is around to care-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock Holmes, bin that this instant. You were not raised in a stable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, except for dear brother.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock deliberately ignores him, kicking the cigarette across the stones. Mycroft huffs and picks it up, marching up to the dusty ashtray by the front door that still contains the remnants of their father’s old smokes. “There’s no point, is there? I believe our parents would sell the place if they ever remembered it was here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“‘Prolly get a good price for it.” Ah, yes, and there’s Lestrade, following Mycroft up the path. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While Sherlock may encourage, in his way, his brother’s happiness, it still feels odd to see the two of them glancing at each other whenever they think the other is occupied. It reminds him of his youth, watching them “study” together, though that mostly consisted of Mycroft reading textbooks while Greg gazed adoringly at him or Lestrade carefully working through a problem as Mycroft watched encouragingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was romantic, though it hadn’t appeared as such to Sherlock in his youth. He just liked that someone could make his brother smile, even if he told Mycroft his infatuation was an irritation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, I’m sure they would, though the eldritch being in the sewers might prove a detriment. Now, shall we be needing to set up a second room for Lestrade, or will you be sharing?” He grins smugly as both of them turn very unique shades of pink. “Or you could use the adjoining rooms-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have matters in hand, Sherlock, thank you,” Mycroft says curtly, taking Lestrade by the arm and ushering him in with a pointed </span>
  <em>
    <span>I see your games but I shall not acknowledge them</span>
  </em>
  <span> look at Sherlock. “Perhaps, Gregory, I could interest you in one of the wines from the cellar?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, if they’re just gathering dust-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock smirks as the door closes behind them. Honestly, Mycroft would barely speak to the man if it weren’t for a little interference on Sherlock’s part. His brother ought to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>thanking</span>
  </em>
  <span> him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alas, that is not the Holmes way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He paces around the entry, contemplating a second smoke. His body is still suffering the effects of withdrawal- nicotine can supplement the process, in a way. Or at least redirect his urges, for a time. If he is being fully honest with himself, the prospect of returning to his childhood bedroom is… off-putting, to say the least. Sherlock glances up, casting his eyes over the upper windows. Mycroft’s room, the largest, with its adjoined servant’s quarters that his brother always used as a private study. Sherlock’s room, and the smaller chamber he used as a laboratory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eurus’s room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a flash of movement in the curtains there, a little glimpse of yellow. A small, smiling face stares from the bottom of the glass, unblinking as her smile widens further and further-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock pinches his eyes shut. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not real. It isn’t real.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bright chiming of his phone in his pocket startles him, into jumping, almost tripping on the stones of the walk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The window stands empty, the curtain billowing slightly in the breeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He rolls his neck as he pulls out his phone. God, but he could use a dash of something to cool the edge off, just- something to ensure he isn’t so... shaken. Sherlock fumbles for another cigarette with his free hand instead, glancing at the incoming number.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stamford. What’s wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock- would it be alright if Molly and I came over? We’ve just run into something a bit, uh. Unsettling. Outside the shop.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His brow furrows. “Elaborate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s Sebastian, Sherlock. Moran. He’s here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- Greg</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alright, yeah, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> back off on the smoking. But at least on the Holmes estate it doesn’t feel quite as bad as it does in the city. He’s out in nature! That should count for something, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s nice out here, anyway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls a slow puff. Mycroft’s probably picking out the fanciest wine still in the basement, and Sherlock had more or less encouraged them to </span>
  <em>
    <span>share a bed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which would be kind of embarrassing if he didn’t sort of want an excuse to do just that. Maybe it’s being around all this shit from when he was young, but he’d like the opportunity to at least… </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> something, maybe. They’d never quite gotten there when they were teens, but maybe….</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. Maybe.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turns to look around for an urn or somewhere to put out his cig, when he hears fast, soft thuds behind him on the grass. Greg turns, looking for which of the Holmes brothers has decided to surprise him, chuckling. “Thought you’d be quieter-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A sharp pain bursts in his bicep. He gasps, eyes fluttering as he realizes it’s Janey standing there, and the handle of a screwdriver sticking out of him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She </span>
  <em>
    <span>laughs.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh my god, he was right, that did feel good. Serves you right, Greggy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No one</span>
  </em>
  <span> leaves me. You should know better by now, shouldn’t you? But nothing ever does get through that thick head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ought to- he ought to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something,</span>
  </em>
  <span> shouldn’t he, but all he can think of is the times she’s thrown plates at his head, the times she screamed and screamed and his brain would just fill with white noises-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something whizzes past his ear and Janey </span>
  <em>
    <span>howls</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not in pain but with rage. He blinks- what was that, an arrow?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Run,” says a terse voice behind him. “Or the next one will be in your throat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything still feels a little blurry when someone pulls him up, herding him- carrying him, really- back indoors. “Come along, Lestrade. We’ll have Doctor Watson over and get that looked at.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thought he was a Captain,” Greg slurs, trying to clear the fog in his head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s both! And he always thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>would be the overachiever.” Sherlock’s curls appear in front of him and a light is waved across his eyes. “You’ll be alright. Stay there, yes? Mycroft! Put down the Chateau Haut-Brion, your policeman needs attending.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Greg?” Mycroft’s voice seems far away at first, but his hands are warm as they wrap around him. “I need you to breathe with me, alright? John’s nearly here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breathe? Has he been hyperventilating? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth is dry, and getting words to come out of it is hard. “She’s gone?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sherlock ran her off. That was… Janey, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg nods. Even thinking of her makes that white noise feeling come back, but he squeezes at Mycroft’s hands instead, pushing it away. “Yeah. Fucking stabbed me, didn’t she?” He chuckles wetly. “Don’t think she’ll be pleased when I tell her I want a divorce.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I assure you, Gregory, you will find that will not be a problem,” Mycroft intones with such dark conviction that Greg’s not actually sure if Mycroft’s promising to kill her or just to get him a good lawyer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Probably should concern him that he’s not too bothered whichever way Mycroft meant it. “How bad is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe she’s missed everything vital, though I expect it will hurt all the same.” Mycroft’s hand reaches out, brushing a stray hair out of Greg’s face, and Greg’s surprised to find himself leaning into it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Stay with me, will you? Even once John’s here, I don’t….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gregory,” Mycroft squeezes his hand once more. “I believe I shall find it difficult to have you out of my sight ever again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>2011- John</b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all gather at Musgrave Hall, kicking up dust from ancient relics that John imagines cost more than a year’s rent on his flat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>And they’ve just been… left here. Abandoned</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like most things in Alderry when people finally leave, it seems. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers the Hall from when he was a very young child, he thinks. It seemed like a place in a fairy tale, massive and sprawling and covered in ivy. His mother would let them play on the edges of the property- everyone knew the Holmes family wasn’t particular with their land, that they were ensconced away with their books and eccentricities. But their father wouldn’t let them. Didn’t want his children to get “fancy ideas” about all that posh shite, make them think they deserved better than what they had. When John told him he wanted to be a doctor, his father almost knocked his teeth in. Probably would have, if Harry hadn’t stepped in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll never be  a doctor, Johnny. Better not to get ideas above your station.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well, fuck that, and fuck him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His knuckles wrap his cane tightly as he shuffles through the old dusty foyer, having just cleaned Greg’s blood off his hands. Mycroft’s quietly on his phone, Greg leaning against him with a glazed expression that John could put up to the painkillers he’s just taken, though it could be a fair bit of shock as well.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” he mutters to Stamford as he collapses into a leather armchair. “Sebastian Moran? You sure?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He looks the same,” Mike offers, shoving a tin full of something that smells </span>
  <em>
    <span>excellent </span>
  </em>
  <span>across the table at him. “I’m positive. And take that, please. No comments on whether or not it’s crumbled, that’d be Sebastian’s fault, not mine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something- happened with him, didn’t it?” John can feel it, a little thread at the back of his mind that he can’t quite grasp. “I remember- something bad…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He went to prison,” Sherlock says, flouncing into the armchair beside John as he finally stops eavesdropping on his brother and Greg’s calls. “For murder.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Psychiatric prison,” Mycroft states, hanging up with whichever of his contacts he’d asked to run Sebastian’s name. “Because he kept telling them what seemed to be wildly absurd things about how exactly his mates died, not to mention what they actually found of his family.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg blinks and scratches the scruff on his chin, wincing as it pulls on his fresh stitches, and settles closer. “Think I remember... bits of that. Lawyer got him ruled incompetent to stand, but it was a near thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And he’s apparently escaped,” Mycroft adds. “Quite violently, I might add. I have alerted certain forces that his apprehension would be a boon, but it seems local authorities are rather hesitant to admit they have a possible homicidal psychiatric patient running about the countryside. Something to do with public panic, nevermind the chance he’ll kill someone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John watches Sherlock as he closes his eyes, his fingers steeped. The cogs moving in his brain are nearly visible, but John’s sure it’s too fast for him to follow. “What do you think, Sherlock?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those pale eyes flash open. “If he’s come here, I believe we all know what has summoned him. That creature knows we intend to kill it. It has enlisted protection, as it has before.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry kicks her feet up on one of the probably antique tables, eyeing the bottle of wine on the side table a little too closer for John’s comfort. “How would it get to Moran, though? Not like it could sign in as a visitor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We don’t know if he saw the lights too,” Molly says softly. “Maybe it… changed him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And it never, well. Consumed him. Not like the others, anyway. It let him live.” Mike shrugs. “Has to be a reason for that, don’t you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John’s gaze drifts back to Sherlock. The hands are still steepled, the wheels of his brain still moving. “Sherlock?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Moran is a… host, for lack of a better word.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes rise to meet John’s, so intense and clear but so intelligent. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beautiful,</span>
  </em>
  <span> something in the back of his mind says, unbidden, and John bites the inside of his cheek to keep his face from shifting. “Host?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm, in parasitic terms. Certain parasites can manipulate the neurons of their hosts, guiding them to be of better use. Ants that consume the secretions of caterpillars that contain dopamine, for example, will remain by its side as guardians, becoming violently aggressive to any threats, even though the caterpillar is, ostensibly, quite weak.” Sherlock’s fingers drum against each other. “Our adversary may be giving away more than it realizes by ensuring Moran’s involvement.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“An ant. That is fitting, little brother,” Mycroft drolls. “Perhaps something akin to a fire ant. So we will need to be wary of two parties, then.” His fingers wrap gently, but still possessively, over Greg’s good shoulder. “Sebastian Moran and Janey Lestrade, both of whom may be considered violent at best and homicidal at worst.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She said </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span>… suggested this,” Greg notes, his eyes clearing and that copper’s sharp gaze slowly returning. “At first I thought she just meant her latest fling, but what if….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If it could reach Moran in prison, we must assume it could extend its reach to another likely candidate as well,” Sherlock notes. “Two hosts, then. Two bodyguards.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sighs, his hand closing over Mycroft’s, and while John </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>have assume their previous affection was just post-trauma care, this is, well. A bit more obvious. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hm. </span>
  </em>
  <span> “We’ll have to move faster if we want to avoid them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then we’ll need to ensure we all have our totems as swiftly as possible.” Mike shoves another box of treats- seriously, how many does he have?- toward Greg. “Who else still needs their tokens. Mycroft and Greg, yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>John puts his hand up. There hadn’t been anything he felt connected to at his old home, not like what Harry found. “Not really clear on what I should be looking for….”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’ll come to you,” Stamford says, sounding confident. “It’ll be something personal, something that’s meaningful, and something that meant a great deal to you… well, the last time all of this happened.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last time… god, what did he even </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> last time, so much of it just seems to blur, except... Oh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The memory comes to him in a rush and John clasps his hand to his face. “Bollocks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry lifts a brow. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Christ. I know what it is.” He exhales, slow and steadying the same way he did before he needed to fire in combat. “We’re going to need to go back to the Bell House.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for your patience, everyone! I'd been hoping to update more consistently, but between some real-life nonsense and my brain being Very Uncooperative, things are proceeding slower than I'd like. I do think this will land around 12 chapters, though, and will be updating at LEAST once per month until done!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to MeanGirlWrites, MariaWASD, and LMirandas for beta assistance and support!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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